Winter in my Heart
by Cryptic Nymph
Summary: An anarchist Christmas fic that wouldn't stick to a schedule. Sherlock, John and Lestrade try to save the potential victims of Moriarty's latest plot, whilst battling with new feelings and old nightmares. Slash, dark themes as it progresses.
1. An Early Christmas Present

**Hi there! Welcome to my first serious story, in which Sherlock and John are up against Moriarty in a series of Christmas killings. But will Sherlock and John realise how they feel about each other?**

**Thank you so much to anyone who reviewed "Trick or Treat", you guys are amazing! I'll stop dithering now and let you read the story, shall I?**

**Glad tidings from the Cryptic Nymph.**

It was bitterly cold. John Watson turned the collar of his coat up against the freezing wind and struggled down the street. It was icy that day and he had already fallen, so needless to say he was somewhat disgruntled to find his flat mate melting his laptop speakers on the kitchen table.

"What the bloody hell are you doing Sherlock?" John yelled, glaring furiously at him.

"I'm bored."

"It doesn't mean you can melt my fucking speakers. You're paying for new ones."

"Ugh, fine." Sherlock rose out of his chair and collapsed onto the sofa, scowling at the ceiling. Without looking away, he stuck his hand out onto the coffee table and scrambled to find what he was looking for.

"I've hidden the gun." John said simply, sitting down in an arm chair and taking out the paper.

Sherlock frowned at him.

"Why ever would you do such a thing?"

"Because I always end up paying for the repairs on this flat Sherlock, and I have no desire for any more bills. Understand? No more shooting indoors."

"Well someone got out of the wrong side of bed this morning."

"Ugh." John put his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm in a crappy mood and it's been a- hang on? Why am I apologising? You're the one being unreasonable!"

"There's no need to be dramatic. I hope you're not like this just because of a simple fall John."

He didn't bother to ask Sherlock how he knew he had fallen. "No it's not just because of that."

"Care to tell me?" John looked up, slightly shocked. Sherlock's voice was… caring wasn't the right word, Sherlock didn't care about trivial matters… he seemed intrigued. True enough, when he glanced at Sherlock's face it was somewhere between nervousness and curiosity.

"Well…" he started, unsure where to begin and worried that Sherlock would think him an idiot. "It's Sarah…"

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling again, his expression blank. "Yes?"

John hesitated. Did he really care or was he humouring him? "She… Well, we're just going through a rough patch."

"Because…?"

John sighed. Sherlock either knew little of social cues and when someone wanted to end a conversation, or he was deftly ignoring them. He suspected the latter. "She… She says I'm… That I'm…"

"Spending too much time with me?"

John gazed at Sherlock, incredulous. "How did you-"

"Contrary to popular belief, I know how women work. You spend an enormous amount of your day with me and very little time going out with her, and in those infrequent moments you often leave her to come help me. It's hardly _difficult_." His eyes had not left the ceiling.

John felt a twinge of annoyance at the word. Trust Sherlock to make him feel inadequate. "Well, yeah. So I'm pretty sure she's going to dump me soon and I have no idea what to do."

"Well, do you like this girl?"

"Of course I like her!"

"Then show her you care."

John snorted. "Since when have you been the romance expert?"

"Since it became necessary for my line of work. Just because I _don't_ date doesn't mean I don't know how."

John glowered. "Whatever. I thought I'd ask you this now to save me time later, what do you want for Christmas?"

Sherlock blinked and turned to look at John. "I don't do Christmas."

"How can you not _do_ Christmas? It's… Christmas!"

"I'll tell you again- not necessary John."

"Well, aren't you even going to decorate the flat? What about a tree?"

Sherlock sat up, laughing derisively. "Decorating the flat? Why would I do that? What would be the point?"

"You… You just _do _that kind of thing at Christmas. Everyone does."

"Not me."

"Well I'm doing it if you're not, so what do you want for Christmas?"

Sherlock looked oddly touched. "You want to buy me a present?"

"Well yeah." John said defensively, getting a little hot under his collar. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing…" he said, looking a little punch drunk. "I've just… I've never had a Christmas present before…"

"You've _never _had a Christmas present?" John said, disbelieving.

"As you may have noticed I do not come from the closest of families. We didn't do the whole _family_," he spat the word as if it was diseased "Christmas deal."

"What about your friends?" There was genuine concern in John's eyes that made Sherlock feel uneasy.

"I told you, I don't have friends. Didn't have friends."

John stared. "So we're… friends?"

"Err… I like to think so?" Sherlock felt deeply uncomfortable putting himself out there like this.

John smiled. "Good," he said softly. Sherlock found himself smiling back. He had a friend… How unusual a feeling it was. There was a quiet knock at the door that caused Sherlock to come back to earth. "Come in," said John.

Mrs Hudson smiled brightly at Sherlock as she entered, holding a small package in her hands. It was a dark purple box with a black ribbon tied around it, and a gift tag.

"This arrived for you just now dear."

Sherlock took the box, bemused. Mrs Hudson bustled back downstairs.

"I thought you said you didn't do presents?" said John, surprised to find himself feeling a little miffed that someone else had bought Sherlock something.

"I don't." He looked at the present suspiciously, and glanced at the gift tag.

_To Sherlock Holmes_

_Just a little gift from me. Call it an early Christmas present._

_Call me x_

Sherlock stared at the box, confused and annoyed. John had been reading it over his shoulder. "You've got yourself an admirer," John was grinning, much to Sherlock's dismay.

"This isn't right…"

"What's wrong with it?"

Sherlock's long slender fingers tore at the ribbon, and he practically wrenched the lid off. Inside there was a single Polaroid. It was the corpse of a man, with his throat brutally cut. Below, someone had written the number 12.

"There's been a murder,"

John took the photo from him, looking shocked. He turned it over, and suddenly went pale. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"It's from Moriarty."

Sherlock's blood ran cold. He snatched the photo and saw the words: _With all my love, from Jim_. Jim Moriarty… The man who had sent him all those little puzzles, all those little games for him to figure out whilst some poor bastard was strapped to a bomb. After the swimming pool…

There was thudding on the stairs. Before Sherlock or John could turn to look, Lestrade burst through the door of the flat.

"Sherlock," he gasped, catching his breath. "You've got to come look at this."

"I think we already know…" He held out the photograph for him to see. "We're right behind you."

Lestrade hurtled back downstairs and Sherlock and John soon followed suit, stepping into the black taxi and praying to God that Sherlock would be able to solve this one soon.

**OOO, Tension. In a very loose sense of the word.**

**Did you like it? Tell me what you think! Thanks for reading!**


	2. Human After All

**Woah, reviews :D Thank you so much for anyone who's read the story, you guys are stars! I'm not too pleased about this next chapter though, so just to warn you **

The silence in the cab wasn't uncomfortable. John had nothing to say to Sherlock and Sherlock had nothing to say to John. They weren't mad at each other, they just respected each others' right to just think once in a while. Of course, Sherlock thought practically every minute of every day, but John didn't mention this. John clenched and unclenched his fists, trying not to let his anger overflow.

_Moriarty glanced at the gun in Sherlock's hand that was now pointing at the bomb.__ He giggled. "Now you've got my attention Sherlock."_

"_Why are you doing this? What do you get out of this Moriarty?"_

"_Call me Jim. And I've told you before, Sherlock, you've got to learn to listen. I'm bored, just like you. We'd make such a good team, if you'd just let me help you."_

"_I don't need your help." Sherlock's voice was void of emotion, despite the tense situation. _

"_Oh, I think you do. Play the game Sherlock, and you might enjoy it."_

"_This isn't a game, Moriarty."_

"_I told you, JIM!" A brief glimpse of the man's violent temper shone in that moment, and the word rang in the silence of the pool._

"_I will never call you Jim."_

"_Come now Sherlock," he said, reptilian grin once again plastered on his face. "The only way you're coming out of here alive is if you play my game."  
"What is it with you and this GAME?" Sherlock growled, anger threatening to cloud his judgement. _

_Moriarty grinned. "All of this is a game, and I can see you're sick of playing fair. Now I will give you one, last chance to join me and kill that wretch of a man you call a flat mate on the spot."_

"_If you hurt him I'll kill you," Sherlock murmured, his voice dangerously low._

_Moriarty smiled. It was deeply unnerving, like the smile of the Cheshire Cat. Sherlock allowed his mind to wander. _

**We're all mad here.**

_Sherlock returned to earth at the sound of Moriarty's musical tone. "I see you've made your choice. Fortunately for you, I was bluffing." He laughed at the look of surprise on Sherlock's face. You're too much fun to kill Sherlock. I'm going to leave now, and let you keep your little pet too, but be warned. I will find your weakness and then I will tear you apart."_

_Sherlock kept his hand on the trigger of the gun. "What if I blow us all up?"_

"_You wont. There are approximately 50 armed men currently approaching us now, including your brother and Lestrade. You wont kill innocent people."_

"_I don't care about Mycroft."_

"_But what about Lestrade? And let's not forget, Johnny boy's in here too." Sherlock glanced at John, still leaning against the wall with a gun pointed at his chest. Moriarty laughed. "You know I can get out alive, and that if you shoot me I will trigger the bomb. Don't make me spell it out." He was made even more irritating by his sing song drawl._

_Sherlock lowered the gun. Moriarty smiled. "You're such a tease. Don't leave me waiting next time!" He walked calmly towards the doors, stopping only to blow Sherlock a kiss before leaving. Sherlock dropped the gun just as Lestrade and his men burst in to the pool._

"_Sherlock! John! Are you alright?"_

"_We're… fine. He's gone, you wont find him."_

"_What? Why did you let him leave?"_

"_Because the only way we can win is if we play his game. And I have a feeling this is just the first round."_

The taxi skidded to a halt. Sherlock moved swiftly out of the car, John close behind him, and into the trendy, North London flat. Clearly the guy was doing well for himself, it was all white walls and white carpets. Even a white cat was purring on the sofa, blending in perfectly apart from two large yellow eyes. It seemed unaware of where its owner- scratch that, cats never really let anyone _own_ them- was. Modern art hung on the walls, which John personally had never seen the point in. Donovan appeared from behind a rice paper partition.

"Hello freak," she said, scowling at Sherlock as he entered the room.

"Ah, Sally. You've been over at Anderson's again I see?"

"You're guessing."

"I never guess Sally. You're wearing ill fitting clothes, ones that you've had for a while that you bought when you were thinner. These are the clothes you keep in your locker that you've never bothered to replace, so you've not been at home, so where have you been? You've also taken extra care to drench yourself in perfume to cover the smell of male deodorant- you've been with Anderson again. Tut tut." She frowned at him but said nothing. Sherlock smirked.

"Sherlock?" It was Lestrade. "Through here please."

John followed them through, annoyed that no-one seemed to have noticed he was here. Then again, who would notice him next to that impossible, infuriatingly brilliant man? John stopped. Since when did he describe Sherlock like that? He shook his head and carried on. They arrived in the bedroom of the flat, Anderson giving Sherlock an icy glare, which he ignored.

"So, who is it?" said Sherlock, glancing at the body of a young man, face up on the ground. He was attractive, with dark hair and large brown eyes, but his face was contorted in fear.

"His name was Dawson Edwards. 31, and drummer in some up and coming band. The Unloved I think it was. He's a bit of a sex symbol; Donovan's got a picture of him on her desk." Sherlock made a mental note to torment her about this later. "We're interviewing the family and friends to see who has a motive-"

"You wont find one. This is Moriarty and you know it."

Lestrade sighed. "You know we can't just leave it at that Sherlock, we have to ask-"

"There's no time to ask!" interrupted Sherlock. "Moriarty's out there and he's going to kill more people."

"We know. Look at his right hand." Sherlock glanced at the corpse's cold, bony hands. The number 12 had been cut onto it.

"Made after death then. And I see he was an addict?"

"Yes," Lestrade deftly avoided mentioning Sherlock's own drug problem. "But how did you know? His arms are-"

"Well, he was in a band I suppose." Sherlock took out his phone. "That's how Moriarty got access to him, through his drug problem, though he's been trying to quit. I imagine one of his people was dealing his the heroin-"

"How do you know it was heroin?" said Lestrade. "And that he was quitting?"

"Oh please," snarled Sherlock impatiently. "His pupils were dilated at death, a sign of heroin withdrawal. He has bags under his eyes, but he hasn't had a late night in a while- no concerts, no parties, or he would have been shown in a newspaper recently. No, Edwards has been off the radar for some time, trying to get off the heroin I suppose, so the only other reason is insomnia, another symptom. Unfortunately for him, his shirt is drenched in sweat but the door wasn't locked, so withdrawal. He'd been up all night, extremely restless, and sweating too, two more symptoms of heroin withdrawal. He has traces of a runny nose and tear tracks down his face, and judging by the slight discolouration of his lips he vomited at some time before his death. Need I go on?"

John and Lestrade stood in stunned silence. "Er, no," Lestrade managed eventually.

"Good. Now we just have to figure out why Moriarty is doing this," he muttered to himself, head in his hands.

"To get at you," John said quietly. Sherlock looked up, startled by the tone of John's voice. Was he worried about him? "This is all about you Sherlock, he wants to impress you."

Sherlock said nothing, but glanced around the room. He looked at Edwards's hand again. "He's bitten his nails, but only on one hand. So he was nervous at the time of death, probably just from the withdrawal seeing as the door wasn't locked." He got up, staring at the spatter of blood against the opposite wall. "He's around 5 foot 6, 5 foot 7 but the blood is higher than where his neck would have been." He glanced at John. "You're around the same height, John. Could I have your assistance?"

John looked wary. "What are you going to do?"

"Just an experiment."

"Fine." He walked over to Sherlock.

"Right. So, the killer entered the room, probably through the front door as there is nowhere to climb from out of the window. He came up behind Edwards, alone in his room, and grabbed him." Sherlock forced his arm tightly around John's neck, and he instinctively tried to pull him away. "Edwards put up a fight, so the killer had to lift him up," He raised John with ease, "and slit his throat." John noticed how oddly warm it was in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock put him down again. "But if I had attacked him, the blood would be higher up the wall, so your killer should be around 5 foot 10 or 11."

"How the hell did you figure that out?" said John, still rubbing his neck.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Right," said Lestrade. "Sherlock, can you and John go back to Scotland Yard? You'll be more use there to find out about Moriarty."

"Fine," Sherlock's coat swished as he left the room, John struggling to keep up.

"You're angry, aren't you?" It was afternoon. John and Sherlock sat in the laboratory with two black coffees John had fetched, but neither felt like drinking them.

"What?" said Sherlock distantly.

"You're angry. About Moriarty."

"Oh please," he snarled. "He's not worth being angry over."

"Then why are you in such a shitty mood?"

Sherlock said nothing, and just stared at John. Finally, he spoke. "So maybe I am angry," he said quietly. "I'm only human."

He sounded so, terrifyingly human at that point that John's mouth went dry. Without speaking, he got up and embraced Sherlock. At first he was taken aback, startled by the contact and John thought about breaking it, but just as he was about to pull away Sherlock wrapped his long, bony around John and nestled his face in his shoulder. John wasn't sure what to do. This wasn't the kind of hug he'd had with other male friends, but, then again, this was Sherlock. And besides, Sherlock was a better friend that he'd ever had before. He was lost in his thoughts and barely noticed that Sherlock had pulled away. John noticed a faint blush painted on his high cheek bones. "We'd better be going," he said, returning to his normal, smooth baritone. Sherlock got up, and left John alone in the laboratory. John sighed, and followed him, as per usual.

**Like it? Hate it? Tell me about it! **

**Also, extra points to anyone who spotted the Minchin reference **

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Exhaustion and Professionalism

**Hey there! This is a celebratory little chapter, to honour the recent end to my exams! Hooray! *uncorks imaginary champagne bottle* That is, until January. Not so hooray.**

**Anyway, this is just a short chapter to ease me in, plus the next place I could have stopped it would have made it insanely long. By the way, mega bonus love points to anyone who can tell me how to separate different parts of a chapter with that line thing across them (An amazing description, I know), because I have no idea how. Please take pity on a poor, technophobic girl! Enjoy!**

"There has to be something." Sherlock slammed his fist down on the table angrily, making John jump. Hours and hours had passed since the body had been found, and Sherlock had been working in silence for hours. The loud noise had woken John from his dozy stupor. John hadn't slept for days- Sherlock kept him up till insane times in the morning with his experiments and excessive practice of the violin. It wasn't that he was bad at it, on the contrary, Sherlock was practically at a professional level, but he only ever played the same tune. It was beginning to grate on his nerves. John yawned loudly, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

"Sherlock," he said sleepily. "Maybe you should give it a rest?"

Sherlock gave him a disapproving look. "There isn't time, John. Moriarty's clearly counting down- if I can figure out the pattern then I can find the next victims. Don't you understand?" He stood up abruptly, frustrated by John's lack of enthusiasm.

"Forgive me for not being as passionate about corpses as you are," said John, dryly.

Sherlock scowled at him. "Be grateful I'm passionate about anything at all."

John put his head back down in his hands, before Lestrade strode purposefully into the room.

"Nobody heard any sounds of a fight, and there were no signs of forced entry. It must have happened too fast for the guy, poor sod. Cause of death was of course the wound to the neck, at around midnight yesterday."

"The method, whilst interesting, is not what the case depends on," said Sherlock flatly. "We need to find out the link between them. Clearly all the victims will know Moriarty some how- they're probably his customers." He grabbed his laptop from the desk and checked the website he'd been on again. It was a fan site of Edwards's band- the news had just broken and devastated fans were leaving messages of despair and devotion all over the forum.

"What are you looking for?" asked Lestrade.

"I don't even know," replied Sherlock, holding his head in his hands. This lack of understanding annoyed him beyond belief. "There are no chemicals, no clues, no _nothing_! I don't see what I can do until there's another murder."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade berated him sharply.

"Well that's the truth," he snapped. "Unless I can figure out what Moriarty wants me to do, we'll have to wait until I have more data."

John glanced at the computer screen. "Maybe he's targeting the band? Or popular figures?"

"We can't rule it out as a possibility I suppose," said Sherlock, eyes shut tightly. "But it's unlikely. Moriarty doesn't want public attention; he only cares about my opinion."

John shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "He's obsessed with you. It's like he's attracted to you."

"I have considered that, and it may be true."

"What?" John spluttered. "I was joking! You seriously think he-"

"As you well know, I'm not the best with feelings. For all I know, he could be." There was an uncomfortable silence. Lestrade coughed.

"Well, er, I, er, better check on the team-"

"Wait," said Sherlock quickly, body tensed and stiff from a sudden realisation. "Oh, how could I have been so stupid?"

John stared at Sherlock, confused. "Er, mind telling us what you're on about?"

"Lestrade, where's the box that Moriarty sent me?"

"Er, just in the other room. Let me fetch it." He returned holding the small purple box. "Why is it important, Sherlock?"

"It's deeply important. Pass it here." Lestrade did so. Sherlock turned it over and over in his hands, long, thin fingers making light work of the bow. He took the ribbon and held it up to the light of the window. Sunlight passed through miniscule holes within the material. Sherlock held up a piece of paper behind it, exposing a phone number written in the patches of light. Sherlock grinned, feeling the familiar rush of adrenalin he got whenever he was proved right. "You see? He told me to call him- on this number. He'll explain this to me once I ring it."

"Brilliant Sherlock!" John exclaimed, forgetting himself momentarily due to the excellence of his friend.

"Thank you," Sherlock smiled coldly, "but there's more to be done. This is just the start."

"Do you want me to trace the call?" asked Lestrade.

"No point," said Sherlock. "Moriarty's too clever. There's no way he'd fall for that."

Lestrade sighed. "Put it on speaker phone then."

Sherlock punched the numbers into John's phone- he was using it out of habit, this time, not his fear of his number being recognised- somewhat more violently than he had intended. The phone rang three times before he heard the familiar drawl.

"That took you longer than I had expected Sherlock. You're getting slow in your old age."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the man he could not see. "What do you want Moriarty?"

"Oh, come now Sherlock. What ever happened to the usual exchange of pleasantries? No small talk?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock growled, his voice dangerously low. "What do you want?"

"Manners cost nothing, Sherlock," Moriarty's soft Irish tone sounded tinny through the phone. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"

"No, as a matter of fact, they didn't," Sherlock said coldly. "Now get to the point."

Moriarty laughed. "Ok, Sherlock, straight to business. That's what I like about you," John began to pace the room. "You're such a professional. Anyway, I'll keep it simple. I've been bored without you in my life, darling. I get the feeling you've missed me too. So I've set up another little challenge for you. Ten more people will die if you don't save them in time, Sherlock. You have 48 hours per person to find out who they are, and how to find them. If you don't, then I'll kill them."

Sherlock heard Moriarty giggle and frowned. "Ten people," said Sherlock tersely. "Why ten? What about number one?"

"Oh, number one could be anything. I could lose some of that Anthrax I've been storing, or some Uranium could fall into the hands of someone you really don't want to have a nuclear weapon. Either way, it'll be pretty destructive."

"You're seriously threatening to start a nuclear war over this?" interjected Lestrade angrily.

"Oh, hello Greg. How are the kids?"

The colour drained from Lestrade's face. "How did you-"

"Chloe, Stephanie and Daniel, yes? Aged 15, 11 and 9 respectively? And what cute children they are, Greg. Their mother must have been beautiful."

Lestrade said nothing but his fear had lit a vicious fire behind his eyes. "W-W-What?" he stammered, before Moriarty shrieked with laughter, enjoying Lestrade's distress.

"Aren't you going to threaten me? You're staying unusually quiet, Greg. Say something, to show you care. Go on."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed in his anger. "You listen to me-"

"This has nothing to do with Lestrade," said Sherlock. "You're talking to me, remember?"

The smile in Moriarty's voice was clear. "Missing me, Sherlock? Why I do believe you're getting jealous! How _delicious_."

"You've got to give me more to go on," said Sherlock in a lifeless monotone. "There were no chemicals in that box, nothing to analyse, that's not what you want, is it?"

Moriarty laughed again. "Well, I'll admit, I was waiting for you to discover my clue in the ribbon. I'll give you the next victim for free. If you were to check Mr Lestrade's office, you'd find the picture of his children has been replaced with something rather more… sinister. Solve the puzzle, and figure out the links between them. You'll never save them all if you don't figure that out, Sherlock."

"Wait!" yelled Lestrade, but it was too late. Moriarty had hung up. Sherlock stared John's phone, turning it over and over in his hands, remembering their first meeting. That phone had let him see into John's soul. See into his past. It was only when he heard the door slam that he looked up, and realised Lestrade had left.

"How did he get into Lestrade's office?" John murmured quietly.

"I'm not sure," said Sherlock. "Though the security on this building is probably no match for Moriarty."  
"It's disturbing," John shivered slightly as he said it. "He knew the names of his _kids_. He must be freaking out." Sherlock glanced out into the hallway. Lestrade was walking calmly back from his office with a Polaroid.

"The next victim?" Lestrade's voice was steady, apparently unperturbed by Moriarty's knowledge. It was only his eyes that gave away his true feelings; they were wide and bright with terror.

Sherlock glanced briefly at the photograph. "Apparently so. We'd best get down to the scene."

Lestrade walked quickly away, bellowing at Donovan and Anderson to _get their arses down here now_. John glanced at Sherlock. "Is that normal? He's so calm."

Sherlock gazed at the back of the retreating D.I. "For him, yes. He's trying to maintain his professionalism. Separating his fear from his work. For anyone else, God knows. Sometimes even I don't know what that man's thinking." Without another word, he walked away. John sighed and ran his fingers roughly through his hair, before following. He got a strange feeling of déjà vu. He'd certainly been here before. He yawned once more as he walked. No sleep tonight, then.

**I didn't plan for Lestrade's kids to become involved in this. Just goes to show that the plots have a m****ind of their own. Must dash, I'm continuing my Martin Freeman Christmas film list, following Nativity with Love Actually. Bye dears! *whoosh* **


	4. Sleep When I'm Dead, You Angels

**Hey there! I am in an unusually good mood today, as we were all s****ent home halfway through the morning yesterday because our school's boiler broke. Consequently, I am neglecting the increasingly huge pile of homework sitting on my desk and writing instead. It's also becoming obvious that I will never finish this story for Christmas, which is irritating, but I'm deciding to stay positive. Here's a new chapter for you to read my dears. Also, thank you to all those who have read or reviewed, you guys are awesome.**

_December 3__rd_

_8__:30 am_

"So where is it?" Sherlock said, his usual cool, almost bored sounding tone echoing around the dingy flat. They were in a rough part of Hackney, in a dingy and dilapidated flat. The wallpaper was peeling, and places where pictures had once hung were outlined on the grimy walls. Floorboards creaked under John's feet, and there was a suspiciously sticky patch on the ground which he didn't like to think about. A harshly bright police lamp shone in the corner of the room, bitterly intense and dazzling John's senses. Sherlock stepped over boxes of papers into the bedroom- if you could call it that. A dirty white mattress was pushed up against one wall, complete with somewhat personal marks of previous owners. There was a small lamp- with no shade, just a light bulb- next to the 'bed', and a small pile of books. There was a cane chair with a broken seat in the corner, next to a broken mirror. Under the mirror were various bottles of pills on a sturdy wooden shelf, lined in a row in order of size. Iron supplements, B12, Vitamin E, he seemed to have enough to supply a pharmacist, but only a few were open. Maybe he was stocking up. Other than that, however, the room was empty. It was hardly a home. John turned and realised that the body of a man was lying on the filthy mattress, a gruesome slash across his neck. It was probably the only the bit of colour in the room, the blood looking jewel bright and oddly crimson in the bitingly sharp glow of the lights. The man could have been sleeping; his eyes were shut peacefully, the ghost of a smile eerily present on his face.

"Dead around 8 or 9 hours ago," said Sherlock, examining the corpse. "Knowing Moriarty I'd say he had him killed at midnight. He has a weakness for theatrics." Sherlock's distaste was clear in his voice, so John decided not to point out Sherlock's own love of the dramatic. He called his brother his _archenemy_ and twirled his long coat constantly, for God's sake.

"So, how are we going to find the next victim?" he asked.

"John, if I knew that would I still be here?" Sherlock said, exasperated. "Don't ask ridiculous questions. He will have left us some clue." Sherlock continued to circle the body, prowling for evidence. "The man's in his early twenties, probably around 21. He's not from round here, he immigrated over from… Romania, I believe. He's short sighted, and in a relationship, probably with a man."

"How the hell-"

"No time, John. No time to explain." Sherlock crouched next to the body in a curiously catlike fashion, looking at the man's hands. The right had the number 11 sliced into it. "His right hand is slightly larger than his left, and his right arm is considerably stronger. This suggests he has done some sort of manual labour. His hands are scarred from repeatedly cutting himself, so he worked with tools. A carpenter, perhaps? No. Look at his eyes," Sherlock leaned over to examine the man's eyelids. "They're puffy and red. He hasn't been crying, his eyes have been watering. Hay fever then, plus, I'm sure over by his various medicines you'll find an empty box of hay fever medication- he hadn't taken any on the day he was killed."

"Fantastic," John said, in awe of his friend's deductive capabilities.

Sherlock smirked. "Thank you," he said. "But there is more to be done here. Where would he be handling something sharp and have his hay fever react? A florists, maybe. More likely something on a market stall, budget flowers, not anything fancy. But why would this man be working somewhere where his allergy will affect him?" Sherlock looked at John, expectantly.

John gazed around at the dank, dark room. "… He didn't have anywhere else to go?"

"Exactly. He needed all the money he could get. I'm guessing he had more than one job in any case, he wasn't exactly living in a palace."

Sherlock walked quickly back into the living room. "He cut stems with his right hand, and pulled the trolley full of boxes with it. That explains the difference in strength between the two arms."

John picked up a book from beside the bed. "_Psychoanalysis_? Sherlock, have you seen this?" He handed it to his flat mate. "The guy's living in this dump but can afford books on Freud?"

Sherlock smiled, still looking at the books. "Brilliant John." John felt oddly proud of being praised by his friend. "That's why he works. He's giving himself an education. Of course!" He shoved the book back into John's arms. "He works to afford his university texts, and where can you find highly paid work? In the criminal underworld. He probably delivered some 'packages' or something for Moriarty, little work but it comes with a lot of cash. He wasn't important, he was just a messenger."

John grinned at the revelation, but then glanced down at the body of the young man.

"21. Poor bastard."

Sherlock seemed unmoved, his mind still reeling from his last deduction. "But how do we find the connection? What's the connection between this victim and Edwards? There must be a link, there has to be."

John glanced around the living room. "Hey, what's that?" He picked up a curved set of pan pipes, which was surprisingly heavy. "Sherlock, what is this?"

Sherlock glanced at the instrument. "A Nai. It's a Romanian pan flute."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"There are lots of things I've had to find out for cases, John. This one just happens to have come up before." He took the instrument from John, and placed it to his lips. He blew out a little tune, the same tune he always played on the violin.

"You can play it?" said John, astonished.

"Only a little," Sherlock said modestly. "Come on. We don't have time to waste here. We need to go back to Bart's."

_1:30pm_

Sherlock smiled as he walked back into the lab. "After vehement protests from Donovan, Lestrade finally convinced her to let me search for the victim's identity myself. His name's Paul Ionescu, and he was a psychology student at UCL. John, are you listening to me?" Sherlock became aware that John was slumped over in his chair, apparently asleep. Sherlock laughed, and went to wake him, but before he could he heard John let out a small noise. A whimper. Sherlock's outstretched hand recoiled. John didn't whimper, he must have imagined it. But then, John whimpered again, louder this time, almost moaning. Sherlock glanced down at John's face, which was now contorted in fear.

"Stop it," he whispered fearfully, a tear trickling down his face. "Stop it."

For once in his life, Sherlock was afraid. What was he supposed to do? Wake him? Or would that just upset John more, knowing that Sherlock had witnessed him in the throes of his nightmare. In the end, Sherlock didn't have to choose, as John suddenly opened his eyes. Looking terrified, Sherlock span around and pretended to busy himself with a microscope.

Pretending not to hear John's gasp of surprise, he stammered "You've been asleep for a while. I didn't want to wake you."

John groaned as he got up, holding his head. "So… I've just been asleep? All this time?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, a little too quickly.

"… Nothing happened at all?"  
"No. Why?" said Sherlock sharply.

"No reason," said John, looking relieved. "Sorry for falling asleep. I haven't really-"

"I know. I've been keeping you up. Why don't you go home for a while?"

"I couldn't just leave. What if you need someone to get you coffee?" He laughed.

Sherlock smiled. "Then I'll ask Molly. Go and sleep, John, I'll ring you if I need you."

"I'll only be a few hours," he said happily, grateful for a rest. "I had a date with Sarah tonight, but I can cancel it. It's not really important."

"John," said Sherlock directly. "Cancelling a date with your girlfriend to look at dead bodies with your flatmate is not wise if you want to keep the aforementioned girlfriend. She's already pissed off at you for running off with me all the time. Go, have a night off. Be with Sarah."  
"You don't mind?"

"Of course not. Besides, if she gets anymore annoyed with you she might dump you, and you'd just be grumpier then. Believe me, in the long run, this is better."

"Thanks," John smiled. "I'll see you later." He grabbed his coat then left, whistling happily. Sherlock sat down in the chair John had just left, confused. He'd just had what looked like a horrific nightmare, but he just… Did he feel better? Was that all it was, some stupid nightmare? Or was John just hiding his feelings from Sherlock… He suspected that was it, but it disturbed him still. He knew John was notoriously private, but if Sherlock hadn't witnessed the distressing dream even he wouldn't have been able to tell. John was a better actor than Sherlock gave him credit for. But still this new emotion haunted Sherlock's mind, taunting him for being so ridiculously sentimental. To think he was worried about someone. The former sociopath, _worried_ about his flat mate. For God's sake, it was simply bizarre. Sherlock shook his head, trying to understand. This wasn't important right now- he'd have to observe John later.

**I'd best start my Physics homework… Awww.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. Epiphany

**Hey there! ****I am currently sitting at home on my own, with no family in the house. What should I have done? Had a party? Gone out with friends? Why would I do that when I have FanFiction and the Sherlock DVD? Rock and Roll. Some teenager I am.**

**Thank you to anyone who's read or reviewed this story, you people are fantastic. ****Love you x**

_5:30pm_

A million different possibilities of links between Edwards and Ionescu floated somewhere in the deep recesses of Sherlock Holmes's mind. He didn't know how he was expected to know who the next victim was if he had nothing to go on.

He listed the things he knew:

Edwards was a heroin addicted drummer who Moriarty supplied.

Ionescu was a student, who suffered from hay fever, just trying to pay for his education.

Moriarty was killing people every 48 hours. This meant he had 1 day and 6 and a half hours to solve the case.

This connected with Christmas somehow.

He had no-one to tell this to as John wasn't around, and the rest of the police force irritated him too much to be of any help.

The present was intriguing. What had Moriarty meant?

Was it just a reference to the time of year, or something else entirely?

Sherlock wasn't sure. And it wasn't becoming any clearer.

_7__:30pm_

The restaurant was more than he could afford, John knew that. But it was classy, and he knew that he'd neglected Sarah recently. And hopefully, if all went well, he'd be rewarded for his efforts later that night. It wasn't like Sherlock was going to be in.

The thought of Sherlock distracted him from Sarah's anecdote. Somehow, inexplicably, he wasn't enjoying himself. He was on a date with an attractive woman who was very funny, very intelligent and very kind, but all he could think about was the bloody case. What was Moriarty doing? And whatever it was, could Sherlock stop it on his own? Did he need John's help? Or was he imagining himself to be much more important to Sherlock's detecting ability than he was?

"So we were running away from Melanie's when we realised we'd left the keys in house!"

John snapped back to reality. He laughed obediently, and engaged in further small talk with Sarah, but his mind was on autopilot. Something, perhaps his need for adventure and excitement, maybe his disturbing obsession with the macabre, was diverting his attention from his early supper with Sarah.

_9__pm_

The phone rang, and woke Sherlock. His face still stuck to various pieces of paperwork, he scrabbled for the mobile, desperate to pick up.

"Hello?"

"My my, Sherlock. Someone's happy to see me." Moriarty's irritating drawl offended Sherlock's still sensitive ears. Contrary to popular belief, he needed to sleep occasionally, and it was coming up to his bi-monthly nap. Sherlock scowled.

"What is it you want, Moriarty?"

"You know my name, Sherlock. Say my name."

"No," said Sherlock coldly. "I don't respect you enough for that. Now tell me why you called."

"I'm guessing you don't believe that this was merely a social call? Quite rightly too. I rang to see how you're doing."

"What do you mean?" said Sherlock, annoyed. "I have no idea, because you haven't given me any clues."

"Oh how the mighty have fallen! The great Sherlock Holmes, stumped by a puzzle from little old me?" Moriarty giggled. "How disappointing."

"I'll figure it out for midnight tomorrow, Moriarty. Don't you worry."

"Aren't you going to beg me for a clue? A hint? The tiniest morsel of information?" Sherlock remained silent. "Too much pride?" Moriarty continued. "You simply must learn when to accept my help, Sherlock."

"You're not going to tell me, so why bother asking?"

"Oh contraire! I've told you before Sherlock, I'm _so_ changeable!"

"Your only weakness," said Sherlock dryly.

"Exactly. Unlike you, Sherlock. You have so many, I'm getting bored of counting. That damn heart of yours will be your end."

"Sociopath, remember?"

"Must we continue to argue about this?" Moriarty spat, his anger beginning to show. "I know that you care more about others than you pretend to, and so do you. Back to business. Have you found the link?"

"No, for God's sake, I've told you before!" The rage bubbling under the surface of Sherlock overflowed suddenly, threatening to engulf him. He bit back the fury, air hissing through his bared teeth.

Moriarty found this hilarious. "Sherlock! Someone's got _issues_. Calm down, will you?" His chirping, musical tones only made Sherlock angrier. "Well, think about the time of year. I'm a great fan of Christmas Sherlock."

"So they've all got a Christmas link?"

"Yes. But you never celebrated Christmas, did you? All alone in that house, with only your brother for company?"

"John will know. I'll ask him."

"But is there time? Better have that epiphany soon. Tick tock, Sherlock." Moriarty hung up. Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall- 10 past 9. Time was running out. He held his head in his hands, his eyes screwed up tightly to focus his mind.

Christmas. Holiday. Presents. Food. Laughing. Alcohol. Hangovers. Money. Shopping. Decorations. Jumpers. John. Sarah. Lestrade. Mycroft. Moriarty.

That was the last thing he thought before he slipped into a deep and dark sleep.

_10pm_

The sharp, cold light blinded Sherlock as he woke. Groaning from the overwhelming glow, Sherlock sat up, suddenly aware of the sofa he had been lying on, eyes once again shut tight.

"Where am I?"

"In my office." He recognised Lestrade's voice.

Sherlock opened his eyes suddenly. "What time is it?" he said sharply.

"10. Why?"

"Shit." Sherlock struggled into his coat, which had been thrown over him as a makeshift blanket.

"Woah! Woah! What's the hurry? Sherlock, you haven't slept in weeks, I can tell. Lie back down."

"I am perfectly fine." Sherlock got up, before feeling incredibly lightheaded. He staggered, gripping the arm of the sofa for support.

"Sherlock," said Lestrade bluntly. "You are going home. Now."

"I'm…I'm…" Sherlock stared into space; eyes glazed over and fixated on something that Lestrade couldn't see.

"Sherlock?"

He snapped out of his trance. "Yes?" He said, breathless, the ghost of a smile on his face.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock grinned. "Nothing's wrong." He laughed heartily. "In fact I'm brilliant. Even more brilliant than usual. I've had an epiphany."

"Are you going to tell me or stand there and gloat?"

"He's basing this on the Twelve Days of Christmas. Twelve victims, each corresponding to the lines of the song."

"So Edwards was-"

"Twelve drummers drumming. Obviously, as he was the drummer in that god awful band."

"And Ionescu-"

"Eleven pipers piping. The Nai I found in his apartment, the ancient pan pipes."

"But surely he can't base his murders on something as simple as that? That's just senseless violence!"

Sherlock looked at Lestrade disparagingly. "And this surprises you? This is Moriarty we're talking about. He gave me a clue to figure it out- Epiphany. The feast of Epiphany, traditionally celebrated at the end of the Twelve Days. Some call it Twelfth Night."

"Er, Sherlock, I thought you didn't _do _Christmas. How did you know?"

"Not important. Now, we need to use this to figure out the next victim. The next line is "Ten Lords a Leaping". What could that mean? Look for a possible connection between Ionescu and anyone who could fit that description."

"Fine. But you have to go home Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked. "What? Why?"

"Sleep for a while. You're no good to me if you're going to faint every time you try and move." Sherlock made a small growl in the back of his throat, irritated at Lestrade's insolence. "I mean it Sherlock. Go, now. Sleep, or I'll have you chucked out."

Usually Sherlock would either casually throw out some deeply cutting remark or skilfully ignore him, but Sherlock knew he was right. Sleep now, he told himself, and come back later. "Ugh, fine."

_10:30pm_

Sherlock finally arrived home, exhausted, after a frustratingly long cab drive. The driver had taken a route so long that Sherlock probably could have walked there faster, his knowledge of London's streets far superior even to the best cabbie. He paid the driver, then staggered up the stairs to his flat. He told himself that if he went to sleep quickly, he could get back to work sooner. That thought appeased him. Just as he was about to walk into the flat however, he heard the low murmur of conversation. Peeking around the for some reason open door, he heard John's voice, and then Sarah's.

Shit.

He'd forgotten John was on a date. Crap. He'd just have to wait until Sarah left. He turned to exit, about to head down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's, when his curiosity suddenly flared. Silently creeping to the front door, he waited, listening to their conversation.

He heard the familiar sounds of John making tea, and he laughed at a joke Sarah had told him. It was John's fake laugh, the one he made when Mycroft said something horribly creepy when trying to make a joke. He was always so unfailingly polite.

Sarah laughed too, and Sherlock began to peek through the small gap in the doorway. She tossed back her hair, allowing her hand to brush across her neck. _Oh please. How obvious was she going to be?_

"So did you like the film?" Sarah asked him, still smiling.

"Yeah," said John. _Liar. You allowed her to pick, and she chose a romantic comedy. Not your scene._

"I really loved Jennifer Aniston when she was in Friends, didn't you?"

"Oh yeah, she was my favourite." _Lying again._ _You've never watched it. _

Sarah finished her tea quickly. She smiled at John, her eyes moving down from his face and lingering at John's chest. Even from across the room, Sherlock could see John's ears flush a deep red. A blush crept up the back of his flat mate's neck.

"I had a really great time tonight, John," said Sarah softly. Her hand brushed his, and John gripped hers.

"Me too." John was smiling but his voice was unsteady. This was unlike anything Sherlock had ever seen before. A nervous John Watson? It seemed absurd. But quickly, Sherlock's attentions were distracted by Sarah leaning in towards John and kissing him suddenly, taking both himself and John by surprise.

Somewhere, deep in the depths of Sherlock's soul, a primal, animal part of him screamed. He wasn't sure of why, but for some reason with all his heart, with every fibre of his being, he wanted to rip the two apart, to stop them, to end the kiss. He wanted to tear her limb from limb for ever _daring _to touch John. John was not hers. He was Sherlock's.

Sherlock realised he was panting. Luckily the two were still unaware of his presence, deeply engrossed in, well, _each other_.

What was wrong with him? John wasn't his. John was Sarah's. But even saying Sarah's name left a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth- the name of the woman who had taken John away from him. The way she looked at him, so arrogant, so confident of John's continued adoration. What he wouldn't give for John to look at him like that.

Sherlock shook his head frantically. He was just tired. That was all. Occasionally he wanted a bit of human contact when he was exhausted. But it began to dawn on Sherlock that he didn't just want John, he _needed _him. He craved the man, like a drowning man needed oxygen; he ached for him, yearned for him, longed for him-

Lusted for him. Sherlock thought of John, all the times he'd seen him coming out of his bedroom in only those stripy pyjama bottoms. He found himself blushing like a sunset, feeling a little too hot to be perfectly normal. Oh God. He had a crush on his room mate.

Sherlock's thoughts were broken by the sound of John's jacket falling to the floor. It pierced him like a knife, sharp and cruel. Sherlock moaned inwardly. What was he going to do?

He was so deep in thought about a way to get out of there that he didn't notice that he was leaning against the open door. Falling backwards through the doorframe, he landed on the floor of 221B with an almighty crash. John and Sarah broke apart, looking flushed, sitting up from their position on the sofa. Sherlock also sat up abruptly, desperately embarrassed.

"Sherlock!" said John quickly. "I thought you were at Scotland Yard!"

"Er, yes," said Sherlock, hastily smoothing down his hair. "I was. But I came home." He scowled awkwardly, before scolding himself. _Stop acting like a lovesick teenager. For God's sake!_

"Oh," said John, still a little flustered. "Well, er-"

"I'd best be going," said Sarah apologetically. "I'll see you later, John." She kissed him lightly, and then slid carefully off the sofa. She smiled at Sherlock brightly before leaving, but he did nothing. If looks could kill, Sherlock's would have burned holes in Sarah's head. John looked stunned.

"What're you doing here?" he said dazedly, still stunned by the odd turn of events. "I said I had a date."

"I forgot."

John sighed, looking deeply frustrated. "Right. How come you fell over anyway?"

Sherlock invented badly. "I was tying my shoe, and then I leant on the door and then it was open and then I fell and then I saw you two-"

"Yeah, I was there for that bit." John sounded angry. At him. Sherlock felt awful.

"I-"

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock. Just go to bed will you? You must be shattered." The words were kind but felt cruel. Sherlock couldn't stand that John was mad at him.

"… Are you coming tomorrow?" Thankfully, John wasn't looking at him. If he had, he would have seen the bitter tears in Sherlock's eyes. He managed to stop his voice from cracking.

"Yeah, yeah, sure." John got up, buttoning up his shirt once more. Sherlock was ashamed to find himself staring at the area where the flesh had previously been exposed. He span around quickly so John wouldn't notice.

"I'll go then. See you… later." Sherlock walked quickly to his bedroom and shut the door a little harder than he had intended to. The door rattled on its hinges. Sherlock crawled onto his bed and under the covers, huddling into a ball and praying for sleep. Praying to find out that this was all some crazy dream.

But that night he did dream, and he dreamed of John. And only John.

**So I was watching The Other Boleyn Girl earlier, and experiencing some supreme Scarlet Johansson envy. Why on earth would you fall in love with a king when you have Benedict Cumberbatch playing your onscreen husband? As if she doesn't have enough already *pouts***** So I decided to introduce the Sherlock/John UST with jealous Sherlock (a personal favourite of mine).**

**Also, apologies to anyone where I rather ruined the 'link' between the murders by telling them. It became rather more of a plot issue that I had intended.**

**Reviews make a Sherlock fan girl happy! :D**


	6. Awkward

**Hello! Time for a gratuitous John-and-Sherlock-awkwardness-chapter, methinks. To reward all you patient slash fans who've had to wait five chapters before even a hint of unrequited love was mentioned… Well done you. I've had a particularly awful day, and fancied a more relationship centred chapter- just a short one tonight. **

_8:30am_

Sherlock awoke to the smell of bacon frying. He sniffed disapprovingly, feeling a little queasy. John knew he didn't like that god awful stench, why-

Oh. John. He'd forgotten about John, and all about the night before. The memories flooded back like bile in his mouth. He'd interrupted, been in the wrong place and the wrong time, and stopped John from being with Sarah. He'd always been a little inconvenient, a little overwhelming, perhaps this was one step too far?

Sherlock removed his head from under his pillow, pulling on his suit roughly, without thinking. He was rather preoccupied. John cooking bacon was surely some passive aggressive way of letting Sherlock know he was angry at him. Well fine. If he was going to be so bloody immature Sherlock was going to beat him at his own game. He ambled into the living room, pretending that there was no reason for John to be pissed off with him. He collapsed back onto the sofa, picking up a magazine and reading carefully.

"Want any breakfast?" John said it casually, but his voice was brittle. Sherlock glanced up from the article on the anniversary of John Lennon's death- whoever that was- and noticed that even John's posture was stiff, frozen with steely annoyance.

"Just tea, thanks," Sherlock said smoothly, determined not to let any emotion show.

"Right." Neither one said anything until John thrust the mug of tea at Sherlock quickly, with a lot more force than was strictly necessary.

"Are you coming to the Yard today?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John replied his voice still as standoffish as ever. Sherlock's resolve weakened. Maybe he should just apologise? But it wasn't his fault that he'd stumbled upon John and Sarah's night of passion, it wasn't as if they'd never-

"I'm sorry I interrupted you last night, ok?" he said quickly. "I didn't realise that you and her hadn't-"

"Hadn't?"

"Hadn't… yet."

"Oh. Well, er… yeah." Sherlock coughed, fiddling with the collar of his shirt nervously. He couldn't help but notice how attractive John looked even in the morning's half light. His short fair hair was sticking up at the back from where his head had rested on his pillow. His thin pyjama bottoms were too long for him, which puzzled Sherlock at first, before realising that John was in fact wearing some of Sherlock's sleep wear.

"John, are you wearing my pyjamas?"

"Yes. I ran out. Do you mind?"

"Er, no." Sherlock lied. He did mind. The idea of sharing something so embarrassingly intimate with John made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His temperature began to rise once more. "Well, er, I, um-"

"I'll just get dressed," said John, leaving his bacon sandwich uneaten on the kitchen surfaces. It probably wasn't all that safe to eat in any case, considering what Sherlock left on them. He might have eaten a stray finger. Once John had left the room, Sherlock immediately went to the mirror to check his appearance. He winced as he saw himself- pale, thin, gangling. He was nothing to John. He attempted to flatten his hair, which he had always disliked. It had always gotten in the way of his experiments, getting in his eyes- though this was the first time he had noticed how unattractive it must look. Or just the first time that he'd cared.

"Come on then," said John, re-entering the room. Sherlock jumped at the sound of John's voice, and then again at the sight of him. He was wearing a red checked shirt and jeans, somehow managing to look heavenly even in such simple clothing. It made his fingers tingle.

"Ok," he said hoarsely, scarcely able to catch a breath. Sherlock hailed a cab whilst John grabbed his coat, and they sat in relative silence for a few minutes. Neither one could think of anything to say to the other. Finally, John spoke.

"I'm sorry for being an arse," he said plainly.

Sherlock looked at John inquisitively. "You? John, you weren't-"

"Yes I was. I can hardly expect you to just up and leave if I want to… well. And you weren't to know that me and Sarah hadn't… hadn't done that yet. So I'm sorry."

"… That's fine," said Sherlock, a little dazed by the reaction. He'd expected John to hit him. "So… You two haven't, then?"

"No."

"Right."

"…"

"Ok."

"…"

"That's fine."

"I… I just couldn't find the right moment!" said John exasperatedly.

Sherlock glanced at the driver. He had his headphones on- this was going to be marginally less awkward. "And I ruined the right moment?"

"No, Sherlock. I'm sure it will be fine. It's just been a while."

Sherlock blushed furiously. "Er, John, compared to me, you're quite the ladies man."

John looked uneasy. "Oh. Sorry, I forgot."

"That's fine."

"…So you haven't… ever?"

"No."

"Right."

"…"

"Ok."

"…"

"That's fine."

The rest of the cab journey passed in merciful silence.

_9:00am_

"Lestrade," said Sherlock smoothly. "What have you learnt?"

Lestrade gave them both a weary smile that only John returned. "You were right. Ionescu delivered packages for Moriarty, he's been seen entering several buildings associated with Moriarty."

Sherlock smiled coldly. "Good. Now, we just have to find out which of his customers fits the profile. Where's he been recently?"

"Well, I don't think you'll have to do much digging for this one."

"What?" said Sherlock, startled.

"He's been delivering something once a week to a member of the House of Lords." Lestrade passed them a file. "Lord Harrison. We haven't interrogated him yet, we thought you might want to tag along."

"_Tag along_?" Sherlock's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Me? Let's not forget who the competent investigator is here- and besides, you've got this all wrong. It's not him."

"What?" said Lestrade in disbelief. "Look, he's a Lord, Ionescu's met him, it fits!"

"No, it can't be that simple, it just can't. Moriarty's given us a red herring."

"I still think-"

"Do shut up Lestrade, it's distracting me. Let me see that man's file." Lestrade sighed then passed it to him. Sherlock glanced at the photo, and then chuckled. "I was right. This man has been receiving drugs from Moriarty, but nothing hard. Poppers."

"Poppers? You're kidding me!"

"I never joke. He's been ordering Poppers for some time, I'd say about 6 months. He's having multiple affairs too."

"… How did you… Oh, never mind." Lestrade gave up, baffled. "Right, back to square one. Here's a list of everyone he's seen in the last few weeks." He handed the paper over to John.

"Thank you."

"Anything you need?" said Lestrade.

"Just leave John and I to it," said Sherlock calmly.

"Coffee?" said John, just as Lestrade left.

"Not yet. We need to leave- I want to see Ionescu's body again."

_10:30am_

"Please, Molly." John begged, desperate with her.

"No," she said defiantly. "The paperwork's through, I can't get the body. I'm not allowed if you're not police, I'm sorry but that's that."

"We really need to see it," he pleaded. "Please, I'm begging you."

Molly shook her head. "There's nothing I can do."

John sighed, and turned back to Sherlock. "What's up with her?" he hissed once she had turned her back.

"I think she's still annoyed about me outing her boyfriend," Sherlock said plainly.

"But he was Moriarty!" John cried.

"That doesn't mean it didn't hurt."

"Isn't there something you can do?" he said, exasperated by how petty Molly was being.

"Well… I suppose, but you're not going to like it," Sherlock said quietly.

"I think desperate times call for desperate measures, Sherlock."

"Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you." He sauntered gently over to Molly, who still had her back turned. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Hey," he said in his usual rich, vivid voice.

She span around, blushing slightly. "What?" she said rudely, crossing her arms defensively.

Sherlock smiled. "Your hair. It's different."

"Yes," she snapped quickly. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing," He glanced at her lips and gave her another seductive grin. "It suits you."

Molly seemed at a loss as of what to say. "… Thank you?"

Sherlock reached behind her to grab a coffee mug, allowing his hand to brush hers as he leant over. Molly seemed to shudder a little. "Listen, Molly. I know it's inconvenient, and I really don't mean to cause you trouble, but you couldn't just let us see Ionescu's body, could you? It's vital to the case that I see this." Sherlock had stopped very close to Molly, their bodies almost touching.

"… Sure…" she said breathlessly.

Sherlock smirked. "Thanks." He immediately walked on ahead to the morgue, only pausing to shout "Come on John!" John followed, still dazed from what had just gone on.

_12:00pm_

The sounds of the traffic blared inside Sherlock's already crowded head. John looked at Sherlock cautiously. "That wasn't a nice thing to do."

Sherlock blinked at him. "There wasn't a nice thing that would work."

"You know she likes you. You shouldn't lead her on."

"Well if you had suggested another way I would have tried it, but you couldn't think of anything either." He said sharply.

John remained quiet for a time, as did Sherlock. It broke Sherlock's heart to see that look of disapproval on John's face, it was worse than anger. Knowing that John was disappointed in him was enough punishment.

"You can just turn on the charm with anyone, then?" John said abruptly.

"If needs be."

"Oh."

"Does that surprise you? Do you think I'm manipulative?"

"No. God, no, Sherlock. I know that you're not the best with feelings and you don't often understand how they work, so I don't think you're doing it on purpose. But what you did then was hurtful."

"… Sorry." Sherlock found himself saying before he knew what he was doing. Sherlock Holmes _never_ apologised. _Never_. But then again, there were a lot of things he did now that he didn't do before he met John Watson. There was an awkward silence once more.

"How did you do it?" said John, with something like awe in his voice.

"Excuse me?"

"How did you do it? Just… seduce her like that?"

"I… I understand how to evoke emotions in others. Certain tricks, it's useful if I need information. It's nothing personal."

"… Could you teach me?"

Sherlock looked genuinely shocked. Well, he certainly hadn't seen that one coming. "You want me to _teach _you?"

John blushed, checking the cabbie still had his headphones on. "Yes," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Don't make me ask again."

"Why?" Sherlock whispered, conscious of the driver's presence.

"Why do you think?" he muttered. "It's taken me two months to get that close with Sarah, and she initiated that. If I leave it much longer she'll dump me!"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, if, er, you want that, then I suppose I could… help out?" He finished weakly.

John smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Sherlock. I owe you big time."

"You're welcome…" Great. The man he was deeply attracted to expected him to give him lessons on how to seduce his girlfriend. Brilliant.

**Must dash, the Apprentice special is on in a moment. Guilty pleasures… It's not my fault! I need something to distract myself for when Sherlock's not on!**


	7. Affairs of the Heart

**Hey! I'm ill today *sniff* Cue FanFiction and a Sherlock marathon, interlaced with the Have I Got News For You episode with Benedict Cumberbatch on as gu****est host- Thank you Shona for finding the link for me! If this chapter's a little bad, remember I'm sitting wrapped up in a blanket feeling like I'm about to hurl every couple of minutes. The mental image was a Christmas gift from me to you :D Sorry about that. Enjoy!**

_December 4th_

_12:45pm_

Sherlock scoured the list carefully, before closing his eyes gently. He had to think this through; he had to focus his erratic mind to get through this. A million different ideas flashed quickly through his head, before he settled on one in particular:

John looked very good in a checked shirt.

"Stop it," he said aloud.

"What?" said John, looking up from the document.

"Er, nothing," said Sherlock, embarrassed. "I was thinking about something else."

"… Ok…" said John, a little confused, but used to his friend's somewhat odd behaviour. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What if you can't find the next victim?"

Sherlock paused. "Then I'm sure Moriarty will call us to gloat."

"That's not what I meant. What if they die?"

"Then it'll be harder to finish the game, but I'm sure I can manage it."

"What about the person?"

"What about them?"

"Don't you care if they die?" said John, frustrated by his companion's lack of emotion.

Sherlock frowned. "John, I can't let this get personal."

"I know that, but still. Don't you feel anything towards these people?"

"You can't let it get to you."

"Nothing ever reaches you, you mean? You have to stay above it all, is that it?" John said angrily.

Sherlock went quiet. "You think I'm like him?"

John looked scared. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it-"

"You're right, in any case. Me and Moriarty, sociopaths, together." Sherlock didn't feel bitter, just a bit… regretful. Maybe he could have been better.

"Sherlock I-"

"Don't worry. It's fine."

John stayed silent for a while, before gingerly attempting to make conversation again. "Have you got any ideas?"

"Twelve. At the moment."

"Ah. Care to share them with me?"

"I think the most likely target is a member of the stables he's been visiting. Though whether that theory is correct or not depends on what Lestrade tells me in a moment." Sure enough, Lestrade came through the door a moment later.

"You're right Sherlock," he said, grinning. "The stables you mentioned are registered Thoroughbred breeders. Prime race horse material."

Sherlock smiled. "Brilliant."

"Er, why is that important?" asked John.

"You'll see. Come on John, we've got some investigating to do."

_1:30pm_

The stables were a little over three miles from Scotland Yard. The journey had been long due to London's traffic, but John had been happily distracted by the Times crossword and Sherlock had time to think. To formulate a plan. Time was running out. Eventually they arrived, their feet sinking into the muddy ground as they stood outside the gates.

"Unusual, this place," said Lestrade. "It could be the countryside. You'd never tell there were places like this in London."

"You'd be surprised what you can find if you look hard enough," said Sherlock gravely. They were ushered inside and met by a smiling secretary. She was blond, thin, and wearing enough fake tan to paint a house with.

"Good afternoon sir!" she said brightly. "How may I help you?"

"We're here to see a Mr Robert Blower."

"I'm afraid Mr Blower is in a meeting at the moment, may I-" Sherlock had already rolled his eyes and walked straight past her.

"Lestrade, flash the badge, will you?" Lestrade did as he was told as John struggled to keep up with Sherlock.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you going?" he asked nervously.

"The meeting. It wont take us long to find out where he is- Ah." Sherlock found the room he was looking for, and wrapped on the door with his knuckles. He didn't bother to wait for an answer, barging in regardless. Four men, all sitting at long table, looked up at him.

"Excuse me," said one. "But who the hell are you?"

"Mr Blower, I assume?"

"Yes," he said tetchily.

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock, his deep voice resonating loudly against the walls. "I'm here to question you in connection with the deaths of Dawson Edwards and Paul Ionescu, and the planned deaths of ten more people."

"Are you with the police?"

"You could say that."

"Is it urgent? Can't you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"Mr Blower, if you don't comply before midnight tonight, it's definite that someone will die. It could be you."

Robert Blower stopped the meeting.

_3__:00pm_

"I've told you," Blower said, exasperated. "I don't know anything about any Ionescu, and the only reason I've heard of this Dawson Edwards guy is because of my teenage daughter. She's got a poster of him on her ceiling. Can I go?"

"I'm afraid not," said Sherlock smoothly. "I forgot to mention, this is a very nice office Mr Blower."

"Oh, er, thank you." He said with a smug smile. Sherlock gazed out of the large windows that made up the side wall of the office and out into the stables.

"Mr Blower, I can not stress enough that I am not a man you should lie to," said Sherlock, totally without emotion. "Confiding in me is the only way to avoid this murder- are you sure you have never heard of Paul Ionescu?"

"Yes!" he insisted. "Look, I don't handle deliveries, they're Anthony's business!"

"Anthony?" asked Sherlock. "Anthony who?"

"Anthony Mellor. He owns the stable with me, he's the guy who handles all that. I do the accounts, he orders stuff for the horses! I'm innocent in this, I swear!"

Sherlock frowned. "Well, that's about everything I need to know. If you could introduce me to Mr Mellor I would be most grateful."

Blower led them down a dark, narrow corridor to a dark and dingy office.

"Not so nice, this place," said John thoughtfully.

"Well," Blower said quietly. "Anthony's never been one for the whole light, airy, open space thing. He adores the horses, but other than that he keeps himself to himself." They reached the tiny office. "Anthony?" Blower knocked tentatively on the door.

"Yes?" A tall, spindly man opened the door. His hair was a light blonde, looking almost white alongside his pale skin. His eyes were like chips of slate, which would make the man look cold and calculating but for the warm smile upon his lips.

"These men are with the police. They want to question you about some murders."

"Murders?" Mellor said with surprise. "My God. Well, come on in then." He ushered Sherlock, John and Lestrade inside the room.

"This is a bit different to your colleague's office." Lestrade said bluntly.

"Well, somebody had to have the nicer office, didn't they? Besides, I prefer the darker areas. Much more peaceful. Now, what would you like to ask me?" Lestrade explained about the murders that had happened, and how they expected there to be more. "Good heavens," said Mellor quietly. "That sounds awful. But I'm afraid that I have no recollection of ever meeting this man. I'm dreadfully sorry. I forgot to ask you your name, by the way," he asked Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"What? The Sherlock Holmes that went to Cambridge with Sebastian Farleigh?"

Sherlock winced a little. "Yes. Do you know him?"

"He bought a horse for his wife the other day. A Thoroughbred, with very good breeding behind it. We got talking, and he told me of your rather brilliant deductions when it came to the break in at his bank."

"Oh," Sherlock muttered.

"He told me you have a trick where you-"

"It's not a trick." Sherlock interrupted.

"… Well, he told me you could deduce almost anything about a person from the smallest details."

"Yes, I suppose I can." Sherlock said defensively.

"Well, by all means, do me," he smiled jovially. "I would love to see it first hand."

Sherlock sighed. "Are you sure?"

"Definitely," he smiled, taking a coffee from the rather orange assistant they had seen earlier.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You're from a working class background, and built this business on hard work. However, the recession had hit you hard, so you had to sell half your business to Mr Blower. You are deeply resentful of this, and have been deliberately distant from the man ever since he joined you as partner. You've also recently begun an affair with the young woman who handed you the coffee just now."

Anthony Mellor gasped. "How did you-"

"Now, that would ruin the magic, wouldn't it?" Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, Mr Mellor."

_4:30pm_

"What was all that about with Sebastian?" asked John once they arrived back from the stables.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. When he mentioned Sebastian you tensed up. And you exposed his affair."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh be honest with me Sherlock," John said, with real concern in his voice. "What went on with you two?" John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock felt a tingle of warmth spread through him at the contact.

"We didn't get on," he said plainly. "There's nothing to discuss."

"…It'll help."

"It wont."

"You make me go to my bloody therapist every week and you don't believe in talking about your problems? A little hypocritical, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed. "It's not important."

"It is to me."

Sherlock was unsure whether to smile or scowl at John. He didn't want to relive it, didn't want to remember, but the fact that John… _cared_ sent shivers down his spine. He sighed again. "We lived across from each other. He never liked me, even before I told his girlfriend he was cheating on her."

"You told her?"

"I didn't set out to. She asked me what I thought, and I told her. I wasn't about to lie for him."

"So what did he do?"

"Pretty much turned everyone in Cambridge against me. I'm not getting into specifics John."

John patted Sherlock on the back gently. "He's an arse, Sherlock. Who cares what he thinks? Who cares what anyone thinks?"

"I care what you think," Sherlock said before he could stop himself.

"… That means a lot, Sherlock. Thank you." John smiled at Sherlock, and again, Sherlock smiled before he realised what he was doing. _For God's sake, what was this man doing to him?_

Sherlock coughed. "Well, er, we should get back to the case. We haven't got long."

"Just quickly- how did you know Mellor was falling on hard times? And how did you know he was having an affair with the secretary?"

"Wasn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

"His suit- expensive, and designer. Clearly it cost a lot- but it's at least five years old. Did you see the material? It wasn't in great condition, there was evidence of many stains and rips that have been sewn up again over time. Plus the suit's too small for him- he was thinner when he bought it. That hints to the state of his marriage, that and the lack of photos in his office."

"Photos?"

"No photos of his wife. In the entire office, there's not a single photo. People are so sentimental, if he was happily married he'd have one. If she was the one having the affair, he'd have photos of him and her together looking happy, so he could reminisce about happier times. But no, there were no photos."

"That doesn't mean he was having an affair."

"No. But his cologne did."

"His cologne?"

"He was wearing new cologne. He was going out with the secretary tonight. It still had that metallic smell from a new bottle, but it was off. Clearly he'd had it for some time- contrary to popular belief, cologne goes off."

"But the secretary… Why her?"

"Did you see her necklace? That's high quality gold, she couldn't afford that. This stable's struggling to get by, they can hardly afford to pay a mere secretary much money. Besides, she's using very cheap fake tan- that's her financial state, right there."

"…That's incredible, Sherlock."

Sherlock blushed at being complimented by John. "Thank you."

"And I thought he was a nice guy," said John sadly. "Man, I was wrong."

"He can be a nice guy, and still be an adulterer, John."

"What? No! He was cheating on his wife!"

"That's the difference between you and me, John. You're a very moral person, and your conscience is strong. It's all very black and white in your head. Whereas with me, it's different. There are shades of grey. I myself am one."

"I find that hard to believe. You're too good a person, Sherlock."

"Whatever you want to believe, John."

John shook Sherlock's shoulders a little. "You are a good person, Sherlock. You just don't know it yet." He smiled, and said something about making coffee. Sherlock didn't notice. He was transfixed by the look of… almost _pride_ in John's eyes. John cared about him. John… loved him?

Of course he knew John would never love him in the way Sherlock loved John. But it made him happy to pretend that one day, he could be.

_Just this once, don't be practical.__ Don't be realistic. Pretend, just for now. Maybe that way I'll get sick of him, I wont want him around._

Lestrade coughed. Sherlock span around. He realised he'd been staring into the space where John had been.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He said, a little too quickly.

Lestrade smirked. "Sure."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh nothing. Say hi to John for me." Lestrade left, still with that smug grin on his face.

_Bastard_, thought Sherlock. _He bloody knows_.

_Who am I kidding? I'll always want him around._

**I'm getting these out as fast as I can, but it is steady work. I hope I'm not boring you!**


	8. Burn

**Hello there! I am ev****er so sorry for not updating since- *GASP* **_**the tenth**_**, but I've been very very very very busy. On Tuesday I had my Cello Grade 4 exam, so I've been practising for that (I got a merit- *happy dance*), and on Wednesday night I was at a gig. We do this Zip Rock thing at school where you all have to make bands and ours got picked to play at this nightclub. It's not really my scene- I get annoyed at teenagers playing their music too loudly on the bus, let alone having to dance with them. No matter, I'm back safe, without any muggings, though at one moment I thought I was going to be! It doesn't help that I'm the most muggable person in the world- My 'defence mechanism' is yelling "OW!" before anyone touches me, in the hope they'll be frightened away XD With that and Christmas shopping, a horrific Progress Review (I saved my Music Coursework in the wrong place, so sue me. D for effort- I rock.) and general stress, I haven't had much free time. And I'm sorry. I don't know quite why I'm writing such a long AN, I just feel talkative at the moment. It's probably because it's Christmas soon. Anyway, this isn't the greatest ending to the crime in this case, but I'm not the best at thinking of plots. I prefer shameless Sherlock/John scenes :D **

**P.S Kudos to anyone who recognises the lines I've stolen from Dogma.**** And sorry if my stable-talk isn't great, I'm not a horse owner. As close as I've got is the riding crop my friend has bought me for Christmas. That didn't look weird AT ALL :D Oh, and just a warning- Sherlock's being **_**very**_** dirty minded for a moment in this chapter. Not that you'll mind, of course.**

_December 4__th_

_6:00pm_

"Six hours," said John absentmindedly, gazing out of the window at a frost covered London. Sherlock too glanced at the world outside. It was as if someone had sprinkled icing sugar all over the top of the grey, polluted streets. Somehow it made the place… _beautiful_. It covered the dirt and the grime and the filth and the crime, blanketing the city in something innocent and pure. It occurred to him that before he had made friends with John he had never described London in such a sickeningly poetic way. He'd gone soft.

"Sherlock," murmured Lestrade. "I have a theory."

"Do you?" said Sherlock smoothly. "Must you tell it me? It'll probably be wrong."

"_Yes_," said Lestrade irritably. "I must. Doesn't this Mellor character seem a little… suspicious?"

"What about him?"

"Well, he's having an affair with his secretary," Lestrade said pointedly.

"Must I tell you this again? A bad deed doesn't make a murderer."

"I don't get why you're so quick to defend him."

"I'm not defending him… Is this relevant?"

"You said he was resentful of Blower for bailing him out. Surely that's a motive?"

"A motive for what, exactly? As of yet you have not uncovered any connection between Moriarty and anyone at the club, illegal or otherwise."

"Well…" said Lestrade desperately. "We're looking for one! There has to be one!"

Sherlock's laptop made a small pinging noise. He glanced at the screen. "You're right. There is one. And I've found it out."

"What? Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"I'll explain to everyone when we're there. I've cracked it," Sherlock's eyes danced, the reflections of the cold artificial lights clearly visible in his pale blue eyes. This was his paradise, his Arcadia, his blissful, rapturous nirvana. That tingle he got at the base of his spine when he solved a case.

_9:00pm _

"Is this really the most appropriate place, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked testily. It was late in the evening, and the three men were standing at the entrance to the horses' stables. There were five or ten horses in there, all chewing happily on bales of hay.

"I think so, yes." It didn't help that the stables were freezing. The bitter wind would have burnt his skin raw if not for his thick winter coat and warm scarf. The same could not be said for John. He was visibly shivering, his coat not thick enough to protect him from the cold. "John, are you alright?" he asked, surprised to hear a pang of apprehension in his voice.

"Fine," John muttered.

"You're not fine." Without even realising what he was doing, he had strolled over to John and wrapped his own scarf around his neck. His hands ghosted over the tanned skin of John's neck, and Sherlock only realised later that his own trembling was _nothing_ to do with the cold.

"Thanks Sherlock," John said breathily, smiling up at the taller man. Their eyes locked for one moment, and Sherlock realised quite how beautiful John's eyes were. There was a dark chestnut, almost black ring around the edge of the iris. The rest of his eye was a warm tawny colour, flecked with streaks of amber. It reminded Sherlock of the cognac his father used to drink. Unfortunately, he had little time to gawp at John's exquisite features, as the stable door creaked open and in stepped six men.

"I'm glad you could all make it," said Sherlock coolly, nodding curtly to the men. The four executives he had seen earlier were there, along with Anthony Mellor. "I am happy to say there will be no more killings."

The men breathed a sigh of relief. "That's fantastic," said Mellor.

"Indeed," said Sherlock coldly. "Shall I explain? This club breeds Thoroughbred race horses, does it not?"

"Yes," Blower said proudly. "The finest in Britain."

"And how would you know, Mr Blower?" Sherlock fixed him with a piercing stare.

"I, er, well, I-" he stammered, shocked by Sherlock's accusatory gaze.

"You know nothing of horses," he said plainly. "You're in it for the money. Mr Mellor here is the one with the passion for all things equine, am I right?"

"I have a certain level of expertise, yes." Mellor said quietly.

"As I thought." Sherlock stood up and began to pace the large outbuilding. "The packages that have been delivered here are nothing for humans, they are for the horses."

"The horses?" said Blower bemusedly.

At that moment, the rather orange secretary knocked on the barn door with several cups of coffee. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Not at all," said Sherlock. "Feel free to stay, Miss Blake. That is your name, Miss Blake, right?"

"Er, yes," she said, looking slightly confused.

"Ok then. Yes, they are for the horses. Under your noses, there has been illegal activity in these stables."

"Preposterous," said Blower. "We'd know. Nothing's been going on here that I haven't known about."

"Oh please," said Sherlock waspishly. "I could fill books with the things you don't know about this place. The things you don't know about the people you surround yourself with."

"Like what?" He snapped back.

"Mr Bernard here?" He pointed at one of the executives. The man trembled slightly under his gaze. The atmosphere suddenly became icy.

"What about Bernard?"

"Last year he cheated on his wife of seventeen years, eight times – twice with prostitutes. He even had sex with her best friend while she was at her garden club meeting and he was supposed to be watching his kids." The man flushed scarlet. The other men gaped at Bernard, shaking their heads disapprovingly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Disgusting," spat one man.

"And you, Mr Newman" said Sherlock quickly, swiveling on the spot to face the man who had just spoken. "You got your girlfriend drunk at last year's Christmas party, and then paid a kid from the stables to have sex with her while she was passed out, just so you could break up with her - guilt free - when she sobbingly confessed the next morning that she cheated on you. She killed herself three months later. You sent flowers to her funeral."

"How did you-" spluttered Newman angrily.

"It's amazing what you can find out if you make a few, well placed phone calls," said Sherlock flatly. "Mr Pereira here disowned his gay son. Mr Turran placed his mother in a third rate nursing home and used the profits from the sale of her house to buy another horse. And _you_, Mr Blower," Blower flinched when he heard his name. "You have more skeletons in your closet than the rest of these people put together. I can't even say them out loud." Time slowed as Sherlock approached Blower. Every footstep was like a bullet to Blower's chest. He flinched as Sherlock reached him and stooped slightly to meet him. Sherlock whispered something into Blower's ear, and the blood drained from his face. "Your daughter," Sherlock said softly. "You sick _bastard_." Blower began to well up. Sherlock turned away from them all. He recognized the signs in the men- the deep, burning shame that was blazing inside them. They avoided each others' eyes, desperately ignoring the stinging, scorching guilt within them.

"Sherlock…" said John cautiously. "Are you alright-"

"I don't care what they've done, John," he said quickly. And he meant it too. The frightening knowledge he had just gained about the men around him should have bothered him, but it didn't. That was what worried him. And the fact that he was worrying made him worried. Sherlock Holmes did not worry, worrying meant you were uncertain and Sherlock was _never _uncertain. "I just want to know the answers. The packages contained some very compromising material."

"What compromising material?" said Lestrade.

"Drugs."

"Drugs?"

"Anabolic Steroids, to be precise. Used in humans for many sporting events, as I'm sure you're aware. It strengthens muscles, and many human athletes use them to get ahead. However, there are huge long term health risks, and using them on Thoroughbred horses is a very bad idea. Thoroughbreds are very susceptible to illness and steroids could well kill them. Any potential buyer would need to know whether or not the horse has been taking such drugs. But these were not intended for a horse that was to be bought by regular buyers. This was meant for horse number 10." He walked quickly towards the paddock where a tall, black stallion was standing. Sherlock patted it gently on the nose. "This is Topthorn. He is training to be a race horse. And he's good, from what I hear. He's a rare breed of horse known as a Lord," Sherlock smirked. "Ten Lords a Leaping."

"Brilliant!" said John excitedly, and Sherlock felt a shudder of longing travel down his spine. John's voice, breathy from the cold, was so damn _attractive_. He sounded out of breath. It occurred to Sherlock that John would probably sound like that after sex.

"Yes," he said quickly, attempting to hide the strain in his voice. "It was." He opened the door of the paddock, and gestured for the men to come inside. The horse was huge, muscles bulging and towering above the other horses. "This horse has been given Anabolic Steroids, in the hope he'll become faster and stronger than the rest of the horses in its race. As you can see, its muscles are far more developed, but it's putting a strain on his heart. You can hear him panting from here."

"So it was _you_, Anthony," Blower blurted out suddenly. "You heard him; I don't care about the horses. It must have been you. It has to be."

"Wrong," said Sherlock bluntly. "It wasn't Mr Mellor here. However, he should have noticed the change in the animal's appearance and connected it with the use of drugs. He knew what was going on."

"I-" Mellor stammered. "I- I thought-"

"Then who _did_ inject the damn horse?" Lestrade interjected.

"Miss Blake," Sherlock said simply. The assistant gasped and dropped the cup of coffee she was holding. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh please. Don't play innocent with me. Miss Leticia Blake is your full name, am I right?"

"I don't know anything about horses!" She stuttered. "I swear!"

Sherlock glared coldly at her. "Do not lie." He said firmly. "You were brought up in a wealthy family, and married a Mr. Andrew Blake. He divorced you after you cheated on him several times, and left you with next to nothing. You took a job here, as an assistant, in order to carry out your latest plan. You asked Moriarty to supply you with Anabolic Steroids to give to the horses, in order to breed many champion stallions. Moriarty invested in the horses, and gained money when they won. You took around 40%. Enough to set you up for a while."

"That's a lie!" she protested, but her eyes were hard and steely.

"However, Mr. Mellor realized what was going on. He noticed the change in the horse's appearance and strength, and then confirmed his suspicions when he found the drugs in your possession. You silenced him with sex, Miss Blake. You began an affair with a married man."

"Nothing I've done is illegal," she snarled. "I just wanted my share."

"I'm sure you did. But this is enough to get you fired- and James Moriarty is a dangerous man. I don't imagine he's too happy."

Blake's eyes shimmered with fear. "Please," she said weakly. "Protect me from him."

"There is nothing the police can do," Sherlock said in a bored monotone. "And I won't help. Do you know why? Because of what you have done to this innocent creature." John and Lestrade gazed at Sherlock, disbelieving that a man who shunned emotion could care what happened to a horse. "There is no evil in a horse, except what's been put there by humans. This horse was pure, and you've hurt it. And that I cannot abide."

_10:30pm_

"You know a lot about horses," John said in an offhand way. They were back at the Baker Street flat. Sherlock was lazily draped over the sofa, humming absentmindedly to himself whilst John sat in the arm chair opposite.

"I was forced to take riding lessons as a child," explained Sherlock. "My mother thought I should have a healthier hobby than playing with a microscope in my room."

John snorted. "I'm guessing that didn't work?"

"Not at all. I was never any good. Mycroft was, of course, much better than me and I left him to it. He was always so cruel with his horse, too. My horse was called Joey. He was a bright red bay, with a black mane and tail. He had a white cross on his forehead and four white socks. They were all even to the last inch, I'm telling you."

John smiled softly. "Did you mean what you said? About horses having no evil in them?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Yes. Why?"

John grinned. "Nothing! Just… Some sociopath you are."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't believe in senseless violence to animals."

"But you're fine with abusing dead bodies with a riding crop? I wondered where you got that from."

Sherlock smiled, then a startling image formed in his head. John holding the leather riding crop tightly in his hands. John, beating him senselessly with it, the sting biting against his raw flesh. John moaning Sherlock's name, growling in an animalistic way and Sherlock begging John for more. He wasn't sure how long he had been fantasizing about him and his flat mate doing some _very_ inappropriate things to each other, but by the time he snapped out of it John had made himself a cup of tea and placed another mug next to Sherlock. Sherlock blushed as he realized what he'd been thinking about. For God's sake, he hadn't thought about… _that_, since he was a teenager. Hadn't been so desperate for sex since he was fifteen years old.

"John?" he asked, his voice weak.

"Yes?"

"I will teach you how… how to _seduce _Sarah. But on one condition."

"What?"

"Teach me to be human."


	9. Moans

**Hey! Trying to get these out quickly when I still have time- I naively thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd have a quiet Christmas holidays, but that doesn't look like it's going to happen. This may even be the last chapter before Christmas, due to my hectic schedule, so if it is- Merry Christmas! Sorry for not meeting my deadlines- this is why I shouldn't be allowed to do course work.**** Just a short one for you. Have a nice day!**

**P.S How hot is it when Sherlock says that whilst in the security guard uniform? Yum ;)**

_10:30pm_

"What?" John asked, shock audible in his voice.

"Teach me to be human."

John's jaw dropped open, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. How predictable. "I don't know what you mean."

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "Teach me to be like you. Normal. Sociable."

"… Why?" said John, incredulous.

"Because… It would be useful to me. I need to learn how to be normal in order to gain people's trust. It would help with the case." John sighed with relief, and Sherlock recognised the look of _Typical Sherlock_ in his eyes. He tried hard to ignore it. "So," he said irritably. "Will you?"

"… That's a lot of pressure, Sherlock." John said uneasily.

"And me teaching you to seduce your girlfriend isn't?"

John paused, trying to think of a reason why this was inappropriate. "I suppose. If that's really what it will take, then yes, I'll teach you to be normal."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you John."

"No problem." A devilish grin spread across John's face- _John's beautiful face_, Sherlock added in his head- as a thought popped into his head.

"What?" Sherlock asked defensively.

"Nothing," John smiled ever wider. "It's just… If you want to be normal, you'll have to do Christmas."

Sherlock groaned. "Anything but that. Please. I'm begging you!"

John giggled. "Nope! You've got to do the whole deal- Cards, Presents, Christmas with the family-"

Sherlock moaned into the Union Jack cushion on the sofa. "_Please_, not Mycroft."

"He's your brother!"

"I don't consider him family. The only person I would remotely want to spend Christmas with is you, John." Sherlock said without thinking.

John was visibly taken aback. "Really?"

Sherlock felt a crimson mist taint his skin. "Yes," he said testily.

"… That's… That's really…" John struggled to find his words, and Sherlock noticed that he too was blushing.

"You don't have to," Sherlock gushed nervously. "I'm perfectly fine staying here on my own-"

"I'd love to spend Christmas with you, Sherlock." Again, that breathy, _perfect_ voice that John had when he was pleased. So unlike the military man to show such sentiment in his tone.

"Er, well, that's, er, good then," muttered Sherlock, suddenly finding himself engrossed with the floor. He heard John's laughter, then his footsteps walking away. _Probably gone to bed_, he thought. Sherlock was wrong- a moment later, John had come back, holding a large blue notebook.

"Move over, will you?" He lifted up Sherlock's legs, sat down, and then placed them back over his own legs. Sherlock shivered at the touch- it was all too intimate, too personal, _far_ too warm. He hadn't forgotten his little fantasy a few moments previously.

"What is that?" he said feebly, pointing at John's notebook.

"This," he said proudly. "Is my Christmas planner."

Sherlock snorted. "Your _Christmas planner_?"

"Yes!" John said indignantly. "I like to plan ahead!"

"Whatever, John." Sherlock chuckled. A Christmas planner. Honestly.

"Yes, well," he said stuffily. "I've planned everything this year, so I don't have to stress about it later."

"How very military. Let me see," Sherlock took the notebook from John's hands and opened it. It was much like a diary, except there were lots of little bits of paper stuck to each day. Receipts, Post-it notes, Business cards, all pinned to the book. Sherlock turned to today's entry. "Write Christmas cards for Jenny and Marcus (Australia)? You have Australian friends?"

"Yes. Contrary to popular belief, you're not my only friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock couldn't stop the small, primal part of him that wished he was. John was _his_. Screw Jenny and Marcus. "So, have you?"

"Yes. See, it works?"

"Alright, I'll admit the concept is sound."

John smirked. "I'm going to make you one of these tomorrow. If we get the time, whilst working on the case."

"Wont that muck up your schedule?" Sherlock teased.

John punched him playfully on the arm. "No it wont. And you're going to have to do all of these things if you want to be normal."

"It's not important!" Sherlock whined, but he could tell that he was fighting a losing battle.

"It is to me."

"Well you're an idiot, we all know that."

John tickled the back of Sherlock's leg for revenge, leaving Sherlock writhing and squirming. In an effort to wipe that smug, self satisfied look of John's face, Sherlock brushed his fingertips over the back of John's neck. He burst into hysterical laughter.

"Stop it Sherlock!" He giggled.

"Never," Sherlock grinned mercilessly. Unfortunately for him, John took his opportunity to get his own back. Placing his leg behind Sherlock's, he pushed until Sherlock began to topple. Sherlock grabbed John's shirt to steady himself, but lost balance, pulling himself and John down onto the floor with a humiliating crash. John landed on top of Sherlock, groaning slightly from the impact. Sherlock's body tensed- the damp heat rising from John's chest spread through his own, and he realised they were far too close to each other. Bodies crushed together, his legs brushing gently against John's, heads level. He would have given _anything_, his money, his intellect, _anything_ to kiss John then, his face flushed, eyes sparkling with joy. The perfect moment, if only he leant forward and-

John laughed. "Sorry about that. I must have squashed you."

"It's… fine," Sherlock wheezed, glad the fall covered his newly husky voice. John got up, straightening his clothes. He stuck a hand out to pull Sherlock up, and he grasped it tightly. Sherlock felt a slight head rush when he was back on two feet, though he wasn't sure whether it was the fall or John that had caused it.

"I'm going to bed. Wake me if anything important happens, ok?" John walked away quietly, still chuckling to himself. When he was sure John had gotten to his room, Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa, cursing his own bad luck. If only he'd been a woman, then John might show some interest. He held his head in his hands, trying to sober up. He still felt slightly punch drunk by the whole experience- he'd never been that close to another human being, well, _ever_.

Sherlock stopped his frantic thoughts. John's palms were sweaty. Very sweaty, considering they'd done very little physical exercise. John was fit- _in _every_ sense of the word_, he thought guiltily- and couldn't possibly be exhausted by such a simple activity. So that left… arousal? No, it couldn't be. _Stop reading into this_, he told himself scornfully. _He's straight_. But for all his mind's reasoned, well thought out protests, he couldn't shake the feeling that John had enjoyed that just as much as Sherlock had.

_11:59pm_

Sherlock had waited until midnight for Moriarty's call. He was unsure whether or not Moriarty would ring him- it seemed like something he would do, to congratulate him- but he knew that if he did, it would be prompt and precise, at exactly midnight. Pacing the room, Sherlock stared transfixed at the phone, waiting for the time to change. After what felt like an eternity, they did, and almost immediately the phone chimed. Sherlock answered it hurriedly. "Hello?" he said hoarsely.

"You haven't slept Sherlock," came the all too familiar drawl. "How do you expect to solve the case when you're so tired?"

"Moriarty," he said flatly. "So good of you to call."

"I see you figured out the last case. Very cute, that final speech of yours. So touchingly sentimental."

"Have you found Blake yet?"

"No. I'm saving that for after Christmas. I mustn't go spoiling myself all at once, I've got to spread out the fun." Moriarty giggled horribly, a sound that made Sherlock's legs go numb. And not in a good way like John did.

"So why have you called?"

"Oh, just to see how you're getting on. Have you got any leads on this next one?"

"Not yet," Sherlock said coldly.

"Shame. You've only got 48 hours, remember that. Otherwise there'll be another body!" Moriarty hung up. The sound of the phone blared loudly in his ears. Sherlock shoved the phone into his pocket angrily. How was it that this man could be so _irritating_? He suddenly remembered John, and how he'd promised to wake him up. Creeping silently into the corridor, he knocked gently on the door of John's room.

"John?" There was no answer. He knocked again. "John, you've got to get up, we need to go." Again, there was silence. Sherlock sighed. "John, I'm coming in. You better be decent." _Though_, Sherlock thought, _he didn't absolutely have to be_. His stomach squirmed, and he opened the door. Unfortunately, John was clothed, and lying in bed, but with the most horrifying, terrible expression on his face. Sherlock felt himself go pale-well, paler. John's face was screwed up, his hands balled into fists and clutching at the sheets of his bed. He was drenched in sweat, and breathing heavily. Sherlock saw tear tracks on his face.

"Please!" John shouted. "Please! For God's sake, stop it! Please, Please, I'm begging you, stop it, don't, I don't want to, I want to go home!" John's voice was cracking from the strain, pure anguish in the sound.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself. He ran quickly to the bed, took John's shoulders and shook him. "John! Wake up! You have to wake up! This is a dream!"

John's eyes snapped open quickly. It took him a while to register Sherlock's presence, and when he did; his face was a mixture of embarrassment, anger and sorrow. "How long have you been here?" He asked blankly.

"… A few moments. John, why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock murmured quietly, his face pained. To see the brave soldier so… so _lost_, was terrifying.

"I don't want to talk about it." John tried to get up, but Sherlock's hand was clamped firmly onto his shoulder. "Get off."

"No." Sherlock said bluntly. "Are you alright?"

"I don't want to talk about it." He wrenched Sherlock's hand off his shoulder and got up. He grabbed his clothes and walked out, slamming the door of the bathroom behind him.


	10. The Science of Seduction

**Hey! So I had more time than I thought I did, so I've barricaded myself in the office to publish the chapter! It's been a tad rushed, because so many lovely people asked me to update before Christmas, so it is a little crap. As it is abundantly clear, this isn't going to end for Christmas. But personally, I feel down after Christmas anyway, so let's extend it as long as we can! Enjoy!**

_December 5th_

_12:45 am_

"Please tell me." Sherlock asked for the thousandth time.

"No." John refused bluntly. Awkward taxi journeys seemed to be a recurring theme for Sherlock, he thought absentmindedly to himself.

"Why?"

"Because… there's nothing to discuss."

"John, I just want to help," he said desperately, taking John's hand in his own. John flinched, and Sherlock immediately recoiled. Bad idea. "It's affecting you. And I want to help."

"I don't need help, Sherlock," said John angrily.

"Talking will help," Sherlock murmured quietly.

"You've done enough, don't you think?" He muttered nastily.

Sherlock fell silent, unsure of how to deal with his flatmate's prickly demeanour.

_1:00am_

"Donovan, fetch us coffee will you?" Sherlock said smoothly.

Donovan bristled with annoyance. "Don't you think I have better things to be doing?"

"Well, you're standing there looking vacant so I assume not."

Donovan glared at him. "I'm looking vacant because I was called in at one in the mother fucking morning. Now if you're not careful, _Freak_, I'll wipe that smug smirk off your face."

Sherlock laughed. "Ah Sally, you're so cute. You remind me of when I was young and moronic."

"Back off, Holmes," Anderson said with a warning glance at the consulting detective.

"Anderson, if I throw a stick, will you leave?" said Sherlock, voice dripping with contempt.

"Hey!" yelled Lestrade, thrusting out his arm to stop Anderson launching himself at Sherlock. "You guys, don't react, Sherlock, don't be an arse."

"How about never? Is that good for you?" Sherlock spat.

"Is this helpful?" Lestrade said, sounding exhausted.

"I see your point, but I still think you're full of crap," he snapped back. "Now will you get them to either leave, fetch me coffee or stay silent, please? They're confirming my worst fears about the human race."

"Oh for God's sake, _I'll get it_," said John hotly. He grabbed Sherlock's mug forcefully and stormed out of the room. Donovan and Anderson quickly followed, leaving just Lestrade and Sherlock in the room. Sherlock scowled.

"What's with him?" asked Lestrade.

"I have no idea," sighed Sherlock.

"Really?"

Sherlock frowned at Lestrade. "Yes. Why?"

"It's obvious that you're pissed off with each other, and using my amazing powers of deduction," Sherlock winced at the phrase, "I've figured out that it's more likely to be you who's done something tactless."

"Me! I've done nothing wrong!" Sherlock protested.

"Sure," said Lestrade, rolling his eyes. Sherlock mumbled something inaudible which Lestrade didn't hear properly, but he was sure contained the words "Utterly useless" and "Incompetent". He ignored this. "So, have you got any ideas?"

"Several, but I need data. Let's just plan this out for a moment," Sherlock crossed to the other side of the room, where a large whiteboard displayed the complicated logistics of the case. "Victim 1- Dawson Edwards. Drummer and heroin addict. Victim 2- Paul Ionescu. Psychology student and Moriarty's delivery boy. That led us to Miss Blake, who would have been Victim 3."

Lestrade frowned. "How do you know it was definitely her? Surely it could have been any of those people."

Sherlock sighed. "Moriarty's twisted, but there's method in his madness. Having examined his behaviour, I believe…" He paused, unsure of how to phrase it, "I believe he has a misplaced sense of justice about the killings."

"You're kidding!" said Lestrade in disbelief. "_He_, of all people, is trying to deliver _justice_?"

Sherlock exhaled deeply. "I know it's odd, but he wants to punish those people. Miss Blake has the most blood on her hands, in his opinion."

"Miss Blake?" questioned Lestrade. "But, what about all those other people? You said Blower had… well, you never exactly mentioned what, but-"

"Don't ask," Sherlock interrupted.

"Sherlock I-"

"You don't want to know. Trust me on this one. And to answer your question, he would have killed the person who I thought was the most guilty. In this case, Miss Blake."

"But, Sherlock, I don't understand. The others, they were just awful. All she did was hurt a horse a little, and start an affair."

"I don't know if you've grasped this, but I care a lot more about animals than I do about people. And in my opinion, whoever initiates the affair is far worse, so Miss Blake is to blame."

"He didn't exactly refuse, though, did he," Lestrade said pointedly.

"Even so," replied Sherlock firmly. "Miss Blake was his target, because he knew she was the one I would find it hardest to save. We have to establish the link between Miss Blake and Victim 4- who corresponds to 'Nine Ladies Dancing'."

"But that could be anything!"

"It could be," Sherlock admitted. "So I think we're going to need a little background information on Leticia Blake. I want you to find out everything you can about her life- personal and professional. Bring it to me as soon as you get it."

Lestrade, who would have been angered over the loss of his dignity if it wasn't such a desperate situation, quelled his annoyance. "And what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to have a chat to Miss Blake."

_1:30am_

The door closed with a click behind Sherlock, as he sidled into the interviewing room holding two cups of coffee. Leticia Blake looked up from a magazine that had been provided for her, her expression somewhere between desperation and gratitude. Sherlock placed her cup down on the table and gave her a cold smile.

"Hello, Miss Blake."

"Call me Leticia," she said in a falsely girlish voice, her tone all too powdery and sweet.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That isn't going to work on me, so don't even try. You may have used your looks to worm your way out of it with Mellor but it's not going to happen this time."

Leticia scowled. "Ah. Bat for the other team?"

Sherlock's thoughts immediately turned to John, but he snapped out of it before Leticia had noticed. "No team at all, I'm afraid. I've never been one for sports."

Leticia smirked, then tutted noisily after seeing the state of her nails. It was true, her once carefully tailored appearance had fallen into disarray. Her bleach blonde hair was bedraggled and greasy, her dress had a large spatter of mud across it, and her shoes had been abandoned at the other side of the room due to dirt.

Leticia saw him glance at her shoes. "You're sure you're not gay?"

Sherlock gave her a glare that could have cut steel. "Definite. Now, I'd like to know some things. Describe the process of dealing with Moriarty."

"And why should I tell you?"

Sherlock smiled again. "Because you _need_ to be protected from this man. He's already called me, you see, asking about you," Leticia visibly shuddered. "And he wants you dead. Believe me, he would have killed you if I hadn't figured it out. So who should you be thanking right now?"

"You," she whispered weakly. Sherlock smiled- it was cruel, but it had worked. She would talk now.

"Good. Now tell me about Moriarty."

"I never met him. There were emails, meetings with 'his people', but nothing more. He just told me what to do and I did it. The money went into my bank account. It was… simple."

"Would you be able to describe his associates?"

"Well… There was a tall man, dark haired, glasses, very thin. A woman- to be honest, I think she was sleeping with him, from the way she acted. Very superior, even in the way she stood. Oh, yes, and another man. He was shorter, dazzlingly red hair…" She shivered once again. "There have been few people who've physically chilled my blood, but he was one of them. His eyes…"

"What about them?" said Sherlock, almost eagerly.

"Dark," she said hoarsely. "Darker than… _anything_. They were like deep pools of water. And they gave such a piercing stare…"

"When you say red hair," said Sherlock abruptly. "Naturally red?"

"No. Dyed, definitely. I think he had darker roots."

Sherlock blew out a deep breath that he hadn't previously been aware he was holding. "I think you've been dealing with him personally."

Leticia's eyes shimmered with a disturbingly real fear. "Oh. Oh, please, not him. He was so…"

"Present? Yes, I know. The level of his… _atmosphere_, it's frightening."

There was a sharp rap on the door, and Lestrade entered. "Sherlock? I've got those files for you."

Sherlock forced a grimace. "Thank you." He turned back to Leticia, "And thank you, Miss Blake. You've been most helpful."

_2:00am_

Sherlock returned from his coffee trip- John had gone off in a mood- to find Lestrade on the phone. His back was to the door, so Lestrade was presumably unaware of Sherlock's presence.

Lestrade sighed. "Yes, darling, I'll be home soon, I promise, you stay with Aunt Lucy."

Sherlock could just about make out a child's voice emitting from the phone.

"Yes, I know, I miss you too. I'll be back, I promise you. I love you. Tell your sister that she shouldn't be ringing at this time of night, ok? Night angel." Lestrade hung up, and sagged a little where he stood, as if finally allowing a weight to fall on his shoulders.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and Lestrade jumped. "Your daughter?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. Jesus, Sherlock, you scared the crap out of me, I thought it was Moriarty." Sherlock thought he detected a little fear in Lestrade's voice. "So? Anything constructive?"

"We need to interview the ex."

Lestrade picked up the file. "Wasim Blake. Architect. What's so special about the guy?"

"I believe he's our way in."

"I suppose it's possible, but I can't see a connection. It was _ladies_, remember?"

Sherlock felt a twinge of annoyance. "Yes, I remember Lestrade. Do not patronise me, especially when your own abilities are so lacking. Moriarty's not going to make this obvious- we need to pay the guy a visit."

Lestrade frowned at Sherlock. "Fine, but not till the morning. I'm not going round his house at two in the morning. Besides, you and John need to work some shit out."

Sherlock glared at him. "I've done nothing wrong."

"What even happened?"

Sherlock was about to tell him, then hesitated. "I can't… I can't say."

"Since when were you so cryptic? You know what, I don't even need to know. What I need is to get home to my children. Good night, Sherlock."

Lestrade turned to leave, but Sherlock called after him. "Lestrade. About your children."

He froze where he stood. "What about them?" he said icily, still not turning around.

"Moriarty… I think- I believe he wants to get to you. To all of us, really. He'll attack us where we're most vulnerable. And with you-"

"What are you getting at?" He interrupted bluntly.

"Are they safe?" The words sent a chill down his spine but he had to say it.

Lestrade didn't answer. Instead, he walked swiftly to the door and left, making certain not to slam it behind him.

_3:00am_

Sherlock and John collapsed into the flat, both utterly exhausted. John yielded to his tiredness and fell backwards onto the sofa. Sherlock made some 'therapeutic' tea to wake them both up.

"I think all these late nights are going to get to me," said John wearily.

"John," Sherlock said warily.

"Yes?"

"Time for a lesson."

John spat out some of the tea he was drinking. "What? Now?"

"Yes. Now." Sherlock was anxious to stop any more awkwardness between him and his flatmate, and figured that helping him out would be the best way.

"Well… If that's what you want, then sure. Go for it."

"Get up then." John did so, and Sherlock tried not to notice the way his shirt had risen up, exposing the tanned flesh beneath.

"So what's the first step?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Seduction… It's more of a science than an art, I suppose, but I think it falls into both categories. Whilst the technique itself is based on various scientific methods, the execution… it must be done _artfully_."

John scratched the back of his head. "This all sounds very complicated."

"It is. Now, lesson one."

John's face was a mixture of fervent enthusiasm and nervousness. "Which is?"

"Improving your self confidence."

John looked puzzled, "What? I don't have any problems with self confidence."

Sherlock laughed scornfully. "John, your self confidence is much lower than average. Even the way you stands tells me that- arms folded to cover yourself, protect yourself from prying eyes. You had issues trying to ask Sarah out, issues trying to sleep with her, and even issues asking me for help. You have self confidence issues."

John's mouth opened as if to say something, but closed again. Sherlock smirked.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued. "You feel you are not good enough for Sarah." Sherlock attempted not to shake John's shoulders for being so stupid. It was completely the other way around. "You don't think you're attractive."

John began to blush. "Well, I, um-"

"Which is why," Sherlock interrupted. "I have set up a means of showing that this is not the case."

John frowned, wary of what Sherlock was about to show him. "Sherlock. What have you done?" He said slowly.

Sherlock grinned. "I just took the liberty of setting up a little website, that's all."

"_Website_?" he said weakly, taking the laptop that Sherlock was holding from him. When he saw what was on the screen, he groaned. "Sherlock! What the bloody hell have you been doing?"

Sherlock smiled innocently. "I just set up a website about you. Inviting people to comment on how you came off- personality, intelligence, appearance-"

"You got them to _rate_ me?" John yelled.

"Yes! And, if you look at your average scores, you'll be pleased!"

John scrolled down the page, and a smile slowly crept onto his face. "…That's not bad, is it?"

Sherlock took the laptop from him. "Hair: 8.8/10. Eyes: 9.7/10- well done, John. Body- 9.1/10. Interests- 8.6/10. Intelligence- 8.9/10. You should be proud. There are individual comments too."

John yanked the computer out of Sherlock's hands. "'_Nice hair, great body- I'd shag him any day of the week_'?" John laughed. "Woah… That's-"

"Good?" Sherlock said happily. "Yes. Very good. That guy asked me to give you his number, actually-"

"_Guy?_" John said feebly.

"Yes. You're just as attractive to men as you are to women, John." _Too much so_, he thought privately.

John looked uncomfortable, but Sherlock couldn't think why. Surely he should be flattered?

"Well… That's good then." John beamed, a little smugly.

"Don't go getting a swelled head." Sherlock grinned. "That's the end of lesson one."

"Aww," John moaned. "Can't we carry on?"

Sherlock found the sight of John acting like such a child adorable. "No. You need to sleep."

John sighed. "Fine. I never thought you'd be the one telling me to go to sleep. Night, Sherlock." He turned and made it half way to the door before stopping. "Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Thanks." He left. Sherlock allowed his body to give away once he was sure John was in his bedroom, falling gently onto the sofa where John had once been. It was still warm from John's body, and Sherlock allowed himself to fall into a deep sleep, John's smile still imprinted on the inside of his eyes.


	11. Glances

**Hello! I hope you all had a very nice Christmas. Sorry I haven't been able to update very quickly, but there was Christmas then Boxing Day and then my dad's birthday. Plus there was the distraction of a pile of DVDs, all of which starring either Benedict Cumberbatch or Martin Freeman. I hope this makes up for it!**

_December 5__th_

_10:30 am_

"I don't see why we had to wait so long," Sherlock said grumpily, climbing the steps to the door of Wasim Blake's house.

Lestrade knocked briskly on the wood of the door. "Because I'm fucking knackered, that's why."

Sherlock frowned. They were losing valuable time- if they lost the game just because of this… Still. It wasn't good to dwell on past mistakes for too long.

A tall, dark haired man answered, looking faintly disgruntled. He had deep set eyes, giving him an intriguing air of mystery. They were gunmetal blue, but had highlights of dazzling silver, so pure they were almost white. "Well," he said, his voice thick with an American accent. "Can I help you?"

"Mr Blake," said Lestrade, settling into a routine with which he was clearly familiar. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. Me and my…"

"Colleagues," John added helpfully.

"_Colleagues_, would like to ask you some questions in connection to your ex wife."

"Leticia," the man groaned. "What the hell has she done?"

"If we could come in, that would be most helpful," Lestrade said helpfully.

"…Sure, whatever." He beckoned for them to come inside. The house seemed to gleam, light bouncing off every surface. It was furnished in a very modern style, all cold steel and glass panels. Wasim led them over to a small leather sofa, and sat in the chair opposite. Sherlock, John and Lestrade sat together, Sherlock sandwiched between the two men and feeling very squashed.

"Mr Blake," Lestrade began.

"Call me Wasim," he said, a hint of exasperation audible in his voice.

"Wasim," Lestrade continued. "Your ex wife has been involved in suspicious activity that-"

"What's she done now? Got smashed and assaulted some poor woman in a night club?"

"Er, no. Though she has technically done nothing illegal, she is connected to someone very dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"Very dangerous indeed," said Sherlock darkly. "Mr Blake, what is it you do for a living?"

"I am an architect."

"What kind of building?"

"Oh, new housing, offices, public places mainly."

"I see."

"What does this have to do with Leticia?" He asked firmly.

"Nothing that I can see," Lestrade said sternly, shooting Sherlock a warning glance. "Your ex wife has been injecting steroids into horses to improve their racing ability. This isn't illegal, but the purchase of such steroids is regulated strictly and she has been buying them from a notorious criminal. This man has set up a complicated… Well, there's no other way of explaining it, a _game_ for the police to solve. He is killing people, and Leticia would have been one of them if we hadn't stopped it."

Wasim looked shocked. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Sherlock said in a monotone. "We need to find the next victim. Is there anyone you know who could be connected to such a killer?"

"…No, not that I know of," he said quietly. "I can't even imagine that Leticia could do such a thing. He was really going to kill her?"

"Yes. I realise that this is a hard thing to do, but is there anyone you know who could be capable of illegal activity?" asked Lestrade.

"I'm sorry I can't be more of a use to you, but I really can't think of anyone."

Sherlock stood up. "Well thank you for your time, Mr Blake. You've been very helpful."

Once outside the house, Lestrade sighed. "Well that was a total waste of time."

"I don't think so," said Sherlock, with the smug atmosphere of someone who knows something no-one else does.

"Sherlock, just tell me will you?" Lestrade said irritably.

"I need you to find me records of all the buildings Wasim Blake has worked on over the past 5 years. Detail is essential, get everyone on it that you can. Don't call me until you're done."

"And where are you going to be?"

"Teaching," Sherlock grabbed John's collar and began to drag him down the street, before flagging down a cab and driving away.

_1:30p__m_

Sherlock and John arrived back at the flat later than they had planned. Sherlock had reduced a waitress at one of John's favourite restaurants to tears after rather tactlessly telling her that he didn't give a damn what the specials were, and that if she spent more time serving food than making idle small talk she wouldn't be in such financial trouble.

"Well, that's another restaurant where we're not welcome," John said moodily.

"You say one thing and people get upset. They can be so sensitive."

"Shame that. I liked it there, they did wonderful pasta."

"There's always _Angelo's_," Sherlock said in an offhand way, picking up a book from the coffee table and scanning the blurb. When he looked up, John was brandishing a suspiciously familiar notebook at him. "Oh no," he groaned. "It's not-"

"A Christmas planner!" John said brightly. "Cheer up, it could be worse. I've written everything in for you so you don't have to do it yourself."

Sherlock chuckled. "Your organisational skills astound me. What are we doing today?" He flicked to December 5th in the notebook. "_Decorate the flat_?"

"Yes! It's tradition!" John was still beaming, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile at his childlike enthusiasm.

"But I just don't see the point, John. Why do people want to hurl vulgar decorations here there and everywhere, anyway?"

"You're no fun."

Sherlock glared at John, but couldn't stop a grin breaking out on his face. "Time for your lesson."

John sat down on the sofa, looking eagerly up at Sherlock. "What are we doing now?"

"Well, as I proved earlier this morning, your self confidence has been improved. And it shows- you flirted with the waitress and she responded well." He resisted the urge to tell John that was indeed why he had broken her down. They could have been married for all she knew. Harlot.

"So? What now?"

"Just because you are a good overall package for women doesn't mean you can't be improved."

"Like how?"

Sherlock went into his room and produced several large bags. "Just little things. Your clothes for one of them."

"What about them?" John looked affronted, glancing down at the baggy woollen jumper he was wearing.

"Not your regular clothes, your formal wear. That suit, whilst appropriate for business occasions, doesn't say sexy."

"Oh."

"Try this on," Sherlock pulled out a freshly laundered suit from one of the bags. "I believe this will fit you."

"How did you know my size?" asked John.

Sherlock found himself blushing. "I checked your existing clothing."

John was stuck between a smile and a sigh of exasperation. "… Ok." He went into his bedroom, and emerged a few minutes later wearing the clothes Sherlock had bought him.

Sherlock's mouth went dry. The simple black suit fit John perfectly. John's body was outlined brilliantly, tight where it needed to be, loose where it didn't. It exposed a physique that Sherlock had never seen before- years of military service had made John muscular and well toned. Why the hell did he hide it under those baggy jumpers?

John looked extremely nervous. "Is it alright?" He asked sheepishly.

Sherlock was almost lost for words. "… It's great, John," he managed to force out hoarsely. "Suits you."

"Thanks. What else?"

"Well," Sherlock continued, trying to stop himself staring at John's chest through the thin white shirt. "There are several more suits of the same style in here, in various colours. There are also some more casual things to wear on dates that are far more in vogue than the stuff you've been wearing recently. From what I can tell about Sarah, she's into clothing. There's also a change of shampoo and some new body wash."

"Why? What's wrong with mine?"

"Nothing. These will just make your hair softer and shinier, that's all." Oh how he longed to be able to test that for himself. To run his hands through it, just the once. "And Sarah likes lemon, so the body wash was a natural step."

"You seem to have thought of everything," said John, chuckling.

"Well, think of me as your knight in shining armour," Sherlock said, then immediately regretted it. What a stupid way to phrase it.

John just laughed more. "More like prince of darkness. Come here and help me then, I can't get these cufflinks in."

Sherlock fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt, trying to force the pieces of metal into the hole. His hand brushed momentarily over John's, and he felt a small jolt of electricity.

"Static electricity," Sherlock said quietly.

"Yeah," John said, almost sighing. Their hands were still touching, Sherlock's long pale fingers lightly touching John's tanned palms. The heat radiating from their bodies was immense, and Sherlock noticed for the first time how impossibly close they were. John slid his hand down, interlocking his fingers with Sherlock's and allowing his thumb to gently stroke the back of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's eyes darted to John, and John looked up at him. There was an expression of such confusion and, dare he say it, _desire_ in that look that it threw Sherlock off balance. Their hands had lingered far too long to be called normal. Sherlock began to caress John's index finger with his own thumb, their gazes still locked on each other.

There was a shrill, tinny tone. Sherlock's pocket vibrated. Cursing Lestrade's timing, Sherlock let go of John's hand and answered the phone. "What?" he said angrily.

"We've got the information you wanted Sherlock," came the reply.

"Fine. I'll be there soon." Sherlock hung up abruptly. John had sat down in an arm chair, his expression unreadable.

"Lestrade?" he said in indecipherably blank voice.

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled. "Do you want to come?"

"I'll stay here for a bit," John replied. Sherlock was upset, but not surprised. John had never refused an opportunity to go with Sherlock to a crime scene.

"Ok. I'll see you later." Sherlock made sure not to make eye contact with John as he collected his coat and scarf, not saying a word until he had left the building. But whilst he was shutting the door, he could have sworn he heard John sigh.

_2:30pm_

"These better be good," Sherlock said with annoyance. "I've left something very important."

"What, another eyeball-in-the-microwave experiment?" Sally sneered at him.

Sherlock ignored her. "So? What did you find out?"

Lestrade pointed at a huge pile of files, and Sherlock's heart sank. "There's a hell of a lot, I know. But I figured you'd know what you're looking for."

"In a sense. It'd be best if you left it to me."

The others left and Sherlock buried himself in paperwork, trying to forget John's expression of sheer _longing_ at Sherlock's touch which he was sure he had imagined.

_7:00pm_

Sherlock burst into the room, a smug smile on his face. "I've found a link," he said, slapping a file down onto Lestrade's desk.

Lestrade picked it up. "These are the plans for the new Savoy hotel."

"Yes. Wasim Blake was part of the team that designed the building. He played a large part in the design of the new River Restaurant."

"So? What does that even mean?"

"It means that the killer will strike there, right in that very restaurant. At midnight, tomorrow."

"But, how can we know which of the diners is targeted?"

"That's what we need to find out. Tomorrow we'll go down to the Savoy and check their guest lists."

"So what do we do now?"

"There's nothing we can do now. We'll have to wait. Bide our time."

_8:00pm_

_Just knock. Knock on the damn door; you'll have to go in there eventually. _But whatever he told himself, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to enter the flat where he knew John would be. Waiting for him. Waiting for an explanation.

_Ok. 3…2…1…_

He stepped briskly into the flat, feeling very aware of his limbs. John was standing by the fireplace, draping tinsel around the mantelpiece. In every corner of the flat there seemed to be decorations. To Sherlock's horror, there was even tinsel wrapped around his skull. His mouth fell open.

"You put tinsel on my skull?"

"Yes. It's festive."

"It's an abomination!"

"Don't you dare move it."

Sherlock had been so shocked by the desecration of his skull that he had momentarily forgotten about the events of earlier in the day. "John,"

"Yes?"

"About earlier-"

"What about it?" John said quickly.

Sherlock frowned. "Well, we-"

"Can you help me hand with this tinsel?" John interrupted. He passed Sherlock one end of the decoration whilst he hung it across the doorframe. Sherlock sighed inwardly. He was pretending as if nothing had happened. Because what had happened was unwelcome. Of course. What was he thinking, imagining that John was about to declare undying love for him after one touch?

"There," said John. "That looks good, doesn't it?"

"Yeah,"

John admired his handiwork. "Took me forever but I did it. You don't mind do you? I didn't think you'd really want to decorate the flat…"

Sherlock forced a grimace. "No, I'm fine. It looks… nice."

"Great. I'm going to get a Chinese, I'll be back in a sec. You want your usual?"

"Yeah,"

"Cool."

The door shut. Alone again. Sherlock scolded himself. To think that anyone as normal, as healthy, as _good_ as John could love him. He was aware of a feeling like a weight in his chest. It pulled him down, every step he took was harder for it. Like his heart was splintering and the shards caught his chest, making it hard to breathe. Was this love? Sherlock had only heard it referenced to as something wonderful, something joyful. Not this burning, ever present pain. But maybe he did love that wonderful, ridiculous doctor that he lived with. The man who wore jumpers two sizes too big for him. The man who made a Christmas planner so he wouldn't forget anything. The man who could put up with all of Sherlock's idiosyncrasies. And Sherlock knew that he'd rather suppress his feelings and still have John near than be miserable without him. It was worth all the pain in the world.

**Bleh… Cheesy ending, I know, but I didn't know how to put his feelings into words.**** I have to go, I got the box set of The Office for Christmas. SQUEE!**


	12. Protests

**Hi! I'm trying to get these out quickly as I feel it's a little odd for a Christmas fic to be taking this long… Maybe my mind set a deadline for Christmas 2011? Unfortunately, evil people (my family and friends) are trying to make me socialise with other human beings, something which I do not enjoy. Who needs people? Yes, I am aware of how sad that sounded.**

**Anyway, I've gone off topic. I just wanted to show all you amazing Benedict Cumberbatch fan girls a very cute clip that I was introduced to by another fic. Unfortunately I can't remember the name of the author otherwise I'd credit them, but if you're reading this, mystery author, YOU ARE AMAZING. Ok, so type "The Last Enemy Bloopers" into You Tube. I think it's the first one- AT ****AROUND 2:12 YOU WILL MELT INTO A PUDDLE OF GOO ON THE FLOOR. **

***ahem***

**I'll let you get on, shall I?**

_December 6__th_

_9:00am_

Sherlock glanced at the large clock in the foyer of the Savoy. Nine o'clock… If the service of the prestigious hotel was as good as they claimed, someone would be along to meet them soon. Sure enough, a silver haired man in an expensive designer suit appeared so quickly it was as if he had appeared from thin air.

"Good morning gentlemen," He said, his voice a deep drawl that reminded Sherlock horribly of Moriarty. "How may I help you?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Me and my colleagues need to talk to the manager of the hotel in connection with a possible felony."

"I am the manager," the man said, his voice a little stiffer. "Darren Andrews. May I ask what this is about?"

"We believe there is a crime planned here tonight. A murder, to be precise."

Andrews gasped. "I hardly think that someone would chose this hotel for a murder. It's hardly quiet."

"This murderer wants to be caught, Mr Andrews," Sherlock said abruptly, stopping Lestrade from speaking. "Can we see your reservation list for the River Restaurant this evening?"

Andrews came back a few minutes later holding a long list, looking disgruntled. "We're full tonight, completely booked up."

"Why?" asked Sherlock.

"Well, we have a guest chef. Anton Gregoretski- he's a Michelin Star chef, and is cooking here tonight."

"May I ask what the name of tonight's special event is?"

"_Repas au Clair du Lune_," he said smoothly. "Roughly translated, it means-"

"Meals in the Moonlight," Sherlock interrupted, looking gravely at his companions. "Thank you for your co-operation." He turned to John and Lestrade. "Clearly Moriarty has planned this well."

"So the victim could be anyone on this list?" asked John.

"Yes. And there are a good one hundred and fifty people booked as dining here tonight."

Lestrade sighed. "Well, we'll have to check them all. This is going to take a while."

"That's what coffee is for, Lestrade. Call us when you've checked them all.

"Don't help us, we're fine on our own," Lestrade muttered sarcastically, as John and Sherlock disappeared with a twirl of a Belstaff coat.

_11:30am_

"John, where the hell are you taking me?" said Sherlock irritably, scanning the streets.

"It's a surprise."

"A surprise?" Sherlock hated surprises. They were all too often unwelcome surprises.

"Yes. Now shut up and look over there," He pointed at a large car park. Sherlock groaned. Lined up on the grey tarmac were rows and rows of Christmas trees.

"Christmas trees?" he whined. "But… I'm allergic to pine needles!" He invented madly.

"No you're not."

"I could be for all you know."

"I checked with Mycroft."

Sherlock flushed red with annoyance. "Have you been having any more secret conversations with my darling brother?"

John grinned. "Be quiet and help me pick a tree."

With all the enthusiasm of a child, John walked quickly down the aisles of trees, eyes lit up with wonder. Sherlock chuckled to himself. At least getting a damn tree would make John happy.

"What about this one?" John called over to him. It was certainly huge, a good seven feet tall and extremely wide.

Sherlock sighed. "John, there is no way in hell we'd fit that in our living room."

John glanced back at the tree. "Perhaps you're right. I've always been the same, picking huge Christmas trees. Luckily I've never been left alone to buy one before."

"Maybe you've got some sort of complex?" Sherlock smirked, continuing down the row.

"Taking on too big a challenge? Maybe," John grinned. "I live with you, don't I?"

Sherlock smiled. "I can't say it's healthy but I wouldn't have it any other way."

_1:30p__m_

John had taken a good hour to choose a tree, insisting that he needed to find 'the perfect one'. Despite Sherlock's continued protestations that he was never going to find his dream tree, he had carried on until he found one that he deemed up to his high standards. Of course, they then had to lug it all the way back to Baker Street, as no cab would take them for fear of pine needles covering the pack seat. They had finally arrived back at the flat, bitterly cold and their muscles aching.

"How are we going to get this up the stairs?" John panted.

"Well, you grab that end and I'll take this end, and just sort of guide me inside will you? As I'll be walking backwards, I don't particularly want to bump into anything," said Sherlock, still trying to catch his breath.

"Ok," They picked up the tree, and Sherlock began to walk slowly up the stairs. "Steady," said John. "Right a little. Yeah, that's good. Wait, left. Left a bit more. Right again. Yeah, that's fine. Keep goi- Oh shit." There was a bang. Sherlock hit his head of the doorframe. Hard.

"FUCK!" Sherlock yelled, dropping the tree and clutching the back of his head. He glanced at his fingers- they were stained crimson with his own blood.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

"No. I'm bleeding."

"Oh, bloody hell. I'm sorry Sherlock."

"It's fine John," Sherlock sighed. "Don't worry about it."

"It's my fault though! Let me get you fixed up." They abandoned the tree, and John ushered Sherlock into the kitchen. Sherlock sat on a chair, still cursing under his breath. That had hurt. John grabbed his first aid kit. "This will sting a little, Sherlock."

"Aah," he hissed through gritted teeth, his breath hitched. John dabbed carefully at the small wound, wiping away the blood. Sherlock jolted at the feel of John's fingers in his hair. He prayed that John had thought he was wincing from the pain. John's movements slowed, he seemed to be hesitating. Carefully, he applied an antiseptic balm, smoothing it gently over the wound. It was almost like he was stroking it. Just as Sherlock was beginning to enjoy the sensation, John removed his hand from his head. "Does that feel any better?"

"… Yeah, thank you."

"Good. Help me with the tree." They both grabbed the tree and, with a great deal of effort, managed to haul it into position. John stood back and gazed at it, his face full of pride. "It's beautiful," he exhaled deeply, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. "It's like it was made for the room!"

Sherlock snorted, and John frowned at him. "Ok, ok, whatever!" Sherlock cried, smirking a little at the look on John's face. "So what do we do now?"

"Lights," John hurtled up the stairs and came back shortly afterwards with a large cardboard box. "Untangle these will you?" He shoved the box at Sherlock.

"I don't see the point in this," Sherlock grumbled, fiddling with the wires and scowling.

"It makes it look pretty," John said by way of an explanation.

"Right. Ok. This doesn't look too hard,"

_2:00p__m_

"Such a menial task is beneath me!" Sherlock shouted, hurling the still tangled mass of wires across the room at John's back.

"Or you can't do it?" said John, his eyebrow raised.

"I could if I wanted to!" Sherlock sniffed petulantly. "You do it."

John sniggered, and within minutes had the lights strung delicately around the tree. He admired his handiwork, then turned to Sherlock. "So?" he asked. "What do you think?"

Sherlock looked at the tree. "It's… nice."

"Liar," said John.

"What? No!"

"Oh yes you are. You taught me, remember? You tilted your head to the side. That means you're lying."

"Oh…" said Sherlock, oddly proud of John in that moment. "Well… Maybe once you've put the tinsel on."

They draped the tinsel artfully around the tree, laughing about what Mycroft would say if he saw them now. John passed Sherlock various baubles to hang on the tree, humming some Christmas tune Sherlock didn't recognise.

"What's that song called?"

"All I want for Christmas is You," he said with a smile.

Sherlock blushed. "Sounds good." He muttered.

John continued to pass him decorations until there was no more room on the tree. Despite himself, Sherlock looked at the tree and… it warmed his heart a little. It did make a difference in the room. Everything was warmer and nicer with it present, the gently twinkling lights making beautiful patterns on the walls. The way it glistened in the half light of the cloudy winter's day reminded him of John's eyes.

"It looks good now, right?" John said smugly.

"Yes. I hate to admit it, but it does." His phone vibrated. _God damn it. _Sherlock answered the phone. "You love to interrupt me, don't you Lestrade?"

"Look," said Lestrade. "We've got the information you wanted and you're not going to like it. Get down here."

Sherlock hung up. "We've got to go."

_2:45__pm_

"You are kidding me," Sherlock said in disbelief.

"I'm not." Lestrade passed him a pile of folders. "Five different people, all with various connections to Moriarty.

"How does he do that?" said John. "Get all his clients in one place at the same time?"

"John, he has so many that it is hardly difficult," said Sherlock bitterly.

"So what do we do?" asked Lestrade, a little desperately.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "We go undercover. Sally, book John and I rooms in the Savoy."

"Bite me, freak," she snarled.

"Sally, do as he says." Lestrade retorted. "So what, we're going to wait around in the hotel until the killer shows up, is that right?"

"Yes. John and I will pretend to be guests. Lestrade, you'll need to have police hanging around for when the killer strikes, and I suggest you ring the hotel people and explain that they'll have to find room for us in the restaurant."

"I've never gone undercover before," said John, a hint of excitement in his voice.

Sherlock smiled. "It's not as glamorous as you'd think, believe me. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have bags to pack."

_4:00pm_

Sherlock strode up to the counter of the Savoy hotel. "Excuse me," he said in his smooth baritone. "I have two rooms booked for Christopher Thomas and John Wilson."

"Why don't I get a new first name?" John grumbled.

"Because your name is already inconspicuous," Sherlock muttered. "Now shut up." He turned back to the receptionist, who was typing away happily on the computer in front of her.

"I'm sorry sir," she said. "But I only have one room booked for the two of you."

Sherlock blushed furiously. _Damn that Sally_. "There must be some mistake," he gabbled, glancing at John's open mouthed expression.

"I do apologise sir, but that's the only room we have available tonight." She leaned forward a little. "The lady on the phone said you would want to be put together sir. Don't you worry; my brother's got a guy just like Mr Wilson. Nice choice, if you don't mind me saying." She winked, making Sherlock blush more.

John cleared his throat. "That will be fine, thank you," he said, grabbing the key card and tugging Sherlock towards the lift. Sherlock tried to ignore the giggles and cried of "How cute!" from the reception desk.

Luckily, the lift was empty apart from them. "I'm so sorry John," Sherlock mumbled quickly. "I am going to _kill_, Sally."

"Look, it doesn't matter. So they think we're a couple. It's not like we're actually going to be sleeping in the same bed as each other."

Sherlock trembled at the thought, but disguised it as a shiver. The lift came to a halt, and they travelled down the labyrinthine corridors until they found their room. It was light and airy, well worth whatever the police had paid for it.

John shoved his bag on the bed. "Right, so what's the plan of action?"

"We'll go down to dinner at eight. From what I here, there will be courses served at 8:30, 9:30, 10:30, 11:30 and then finally at midnight there will be an opportunity to dance. Then Moriarty will strike."

"So who are the suspects?"

Sherlock pulled out a folder. "Ms Emma Jenson, at table fifteen. Mrs Tanya Willows, at table nine. Ms Jasmine Hodel, at table twenty one. Mrs Ingrid Mio, at table four. Mrs Claudia Dance, at table eleven. They all either have severe drug addictions or are in deep debt. Though they're clearly in denial if they're eating here, the prices are extortionate."

"What are we going to do?"

"We have the CCTV footage, and Lestrade's working his way in somehow. We've been put in a position where we can watch all the tables and see whether anyone approaches them. However, Sally's stupidity means that we can no longer pretend to be businessmen. I'm afraid," he tugged at his collar nervously. "We may have to imitate a couple."

John's face was a mixture of emotions that Sherlock couldn't read. "Ok."

"You're ok with that?"

"Look, I'll do whatever's necessary to save that woman. And besides, people think we're a couple anyway, it's hardly new for me. I'm going to shower, ok?"

Sherlock waited till he heard the shower switch on before collapsing back onto the comfortable bed. This was going to be a night to remember.


	13. Scars Remind Us that the Past is Real

**Hi! Happy New Year to you all, I wish you a fantastic 2011. The reasons why I am in a particularly good mood are twofold. One, this story has got 97 reviews, which is just INCREDIBLE! I just want to thank everyone who's read or reviewed this story, because if you didn't read it then I wouldn't carry on. Two, my dad just told me that on the 5****th**** of March, we're going to see Frankenstein at the National, starring Johnny Lee Miller and the freakin' gorgeous Benedict Cumberbatch. SQUEE! So I'm very very very very very very happy about the rest of the year so far, though I'm sure something will bum me out before tomorrow! Have you guys made any resolutions? Here are mine:**

**Replace all swear words with "Crumpets" in an effort to be more like Benedict Cumberbatch- this idea was stolen (lovingly) from Shona McEvoy.**

**Be nicer. I know this is crappy because everyone tries to be nicer in the New Year and it never works, but I thought I'd give it a go.**

**I'm not bothering with the usual "Lose 2 Stone" crap, because it just ISN'T GOING TO HAPPEN, but I've convinced myself that I can stay at the same weight. It's bullshit, but whatever.**

**Concentrate on school for once so I can get good GCSEs, and in turn get good A Levels, a good University placement (if I can afford one) and a good job. Which is also bullshit, because I have the attention span of a gnat. **

**Which also reminds me, I get my exam results back in January. I knew I'd find something to depress myself with. I'll get on with the story.**

_December 6__th_

_7:50__pm_

Sherlock pulled on his suit, his attempts to flatten his hair seeming futile. He tried to convince himself that this was just another undercover job, that his acting skills would see him through. The thought of having a _date_ with John, even if it was a fake one, made his fingers tingle. Well, if he was going to do this then he could at least look nice, and savour the memory. He fastened his cufflinks and smoothed down his jacket, preening in front of the mirror.

"Vanity, thy name is Sherlock," came a laughing voice from behind him.

Sherlock turned and frowned at John, before fully taking him in. John was wearing the suit that Sherlock had bought for him, and looked even more beautiful that he remembered. John's hair was shinier too, and Sherlock could distinctly smell a lemony scent coming from the bathroom.

"You look nice," said John in an offhand way. "I know you're vain but tonight it doesn't really matter, does it?"

"It does if we want to look convincing," Sherlock grumbled.

John laughed, and adjusted the plain black tie he was wearing. "Do I look ok then?" He did a little turn, slowly spinning on the balls of his feet.

"Yep," said Sherlock weakly, not actually looking at him for fear of what John's body might do to his fragile state of mind.

"Good. Now, are we going down?"

"Yes, but you'll have to put this microphone on under your shirt. Lestrade wants them as a precaution."

John sighed. "Fine," He took the microphone from Sherlock. He took off his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt.

"I-I'll-" Sherlock stuttered, glancing at John's hands with alarm. "Shall I-"

"I'll only be a sec," John continued, undoing the shirt and taking it off completely. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do- what would give him away? Staring, or the avoidance of staring? John really was very fit, Sherlock marvelled, in a dream like state. His body was perfect, except for the scarred patch of flesh on his shoulder. John caught him looking, and his face fell, looking anxious.

"Your scar," Sherlock said lamely.

"Yes," said John, his voice dangerously quiet. Sherlock searched for the meaning in his eyes. He wasn't angry, he was… upset.

"You think it repulses me?" Sherlock said, surprised to hear the shock in his voice.

John flinched at the penultimate word, answering Sherlock's question.

Sherlock took a step closer to him. "John, you could never disgust me. It is an imperfection, yes, but it makes you feel so much more human."

"Well, it disgusts me," John's voice wavered a little, his eyes reddening.

"Everyone has their scars," Sherlock said softly. He pulled up the sleeve of his suit, exposing his right arm. Track marks were dotted across the alabaster skin.

John's face did not change, but his body began to shake slightly. "I know about your addiction," he said, his voice still cracking. "Those marks will fade. Eventually."

"These wont." Sherlock rolled up his other sleeve. Across his left wrist were several jagged slashes, oddly pink against the milk white of Sherlock's arm.

John's eyes widened. "You…"

"I was sixteen," Sherlock murmured faintly. "It wasn't a good time in my life." He said it with a deliberate tone of finality, a tone that said _do not ask more_. He didn't wish to discuss it with him, not just yet. John brushed his hand over his past wounds, making Sherlock shudder with the sheer _intimacy_ of the moment. He traced the cuts with his fingers, stroking them gently and finally bringing his lips down to kiss them. It was such a simple but wonderful gesture that Sherlock was unable to speak. Their eyes met for a moment that felt like an eternity before John smiled and picked up his shirt, beginning to dress again.

_8:00pm_

They had walked to the lifts in complete silence, eyes not even meeting as they travelled. As they arrived down in the foyer, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the woman who had spoken to them earlier.

"Hold my hand," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

John immediately did so, hooking his arm possessively around Sherlock's and smiling at the receptionist. She winked once more and whispered something into the ear of her colleague. Sherlock flushed a brilliant red.

John and Sherlock stood awkwardly in the restaurant, waiting to be seated. After a while, a young woman came over. "You're here for _Repas au Clair du Lune_?"

John grinned. "Yes." Sherlock could do nothing but nod, his mouth momentarily unable to function.

"If you'd like to follow me," She ushered them over to a table outside, on a platform suspended over a pool of water. Large silver birches formed a beautiful canopy where candles were hung from, the light shimmering off the surface of the water.

"May I ask if you and your partner are celebrating tonight, sir?" asked the young woman, smiling. Sherlock frowned. It was that smug, all knowing smile that he'd always hated. He wanted to scream at her, _you know nothing about me, about him, about us. For one thing, there is no 'us'_.

"No, I just thought I'd treat him," John smiled, putting his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's stomach jolted. John was playing his part well; he'd underestimated his acting ability.

They arrived at their table, and the woman grinned. "If there's anything you need, just let me know." She walked away, still with that irritating smirk.

They sat down, admiring the view. "Beautiful place this, isn't it?" said John.

"Yes. They've certainly used the money well. This restoration's cost a lot, I know that much."

John gaped. "How? You don't know anything that isn't necessary!"

"There was a television show, and I was bored. You were out."

"You were bored because I was out?"

Before Sherlock could answer, a waiter appeared. "What would you like to drink, sir?"

"I'd like a bottle of- Lestrade? What the bloody hell are you doing?" If John had been drinking he would have spit it out in shock. Sherlock's head snapped up.

"Lestrade?" Lestrade was dressed as a waiter, and was wearing an expression that could only be described as saying _Kill Me_.

"Yes," he whispered. "It was the only way I could get in, ok?"

Sherlock smirked. "Well, don't you scrub up well? You look practically respectable. Shined shoes, combed hair- even a waistcoat!" Sherlock and John burst into fits of laughter.

"Shut up, will you? You're blowing our cover!"

"Oh please. They'll just think you've told us some incredibly witty joke- though if they'd met you they'd realise that is practically impossible. By the way, tell Sally that I'm going to destroy that picture of Dawson Edwards on her desk if she ever books John and I in the same room again."

"Actually, that was me." Sherlock half rose in his chair, but was stopped by John sticking out his leg and pinning him there.

"You bastard," he growled. "Why?"

"I thought it would be…" He searched for a word, his eyes lit up with glee. "_Entertaining_."

"Sherlock, leave it," said John.

Sherlock reluctantly sat down, distracted by the situation he was now in. John's foot was now resting in his lap, and it was not altogether unpleasant. As soon as he had thought this, however, John removed his leg from its resting place.

"Anyway. You know where the potential victims are sitting- you can see them all from here. I'll be regularly coming up and down here, with a good excuse seeing as I'm a waiter. If you see anything, say _Moriarty_. Ok?"

"Fine," said Sherlock. "But we really do need some wine. Fetch us a bottle of the '95 Languedoc-Roussillon Merlot, will you?"

Lestrade scowled. "Yes, sir." He nodded curtly at John and walked away stiffly.

John chuckled. "You shouldn't torture him."

Sherlock gave John a crooked grin. "But it's so fun," he said in mock disappointment.

_8:30pm_

Guests had steadily filed into the restaurant and it was now gently bustling with life. Sherlock and John had blended easily into the background, just another couple in amongst many. They had just been served a small starter, one of two for that evening.

"To be honest, I've never been somewhere this nice before," John admitted.

Sherlock smiled. "Well, I have as a child but not since I've been on my own. And since living with you your eating arrangements have been refreshingly down to earth."

John grinned. "Well, beans on toast are delicious if cooked properly." He glanced around at the other guests. "I mean, I'm middle class, but I was taught never to waste money. Have you seen the prices?"

"Extortionate, I know."

"What kind of person can afford to eat here on a regular basis?"

"Why don't we find out?" Sherlock smiled, and turned in his seat. "The couple behind us. What do you think you can deduce about them?"

"Err," John tried to watch them without being caught staring. "No idea."

"He's a banker, she's a lawyer. Married for around five years, but she's been cheating. Recently she became pregnant with another man's child, but she doesn't know it yet."

John's mouth fell open. "What? Have you made that up?"

"No!" he said, a little offended. "I observed."

John laughed. "You're incredible, Sherlock!"

Sherlock squirmed in his seat. "Thank you."

"Breaking something up, am I?" came a familiar voice. Sherlock groaned. Turning around, he looked up and saw his brother.

"Hello Mycroft," said John politely.

"What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock spat.

"Manners, little brother," Mycroft said smoothly. "Just out with Carol," He gestured towards his assistant- clearly; this was the name she was using for now.

"Carol," muttered Sherlock. "How very _festive_."

"It could have been Holly," she smiled coldly.

"Anyway, we were surprised to find you here."

"If you must know we're on a case. Now if you don't mind, you're blowing our cover."

"So you're undercover as a couple?" Mycroft's tone stung Sherlock. He knew what he was implying. "Well, isn't that sweet. I'll leave you to it. Goodnight Sherlock, Dr Watson."

_9:30pm_

The evening was passing reasonably well. John and Sherlock were talking as if this was a typical dinner, just another friendly conversation. Simultaneously, their phones vibrated. Sherlock got to his first.

_You two are supposed to be a couple. Dial up the romance- GL._

Sherlock scowled at the text, before looking up at John. He'd clearly received the same message.

"Damn Lestrade," Sherlock muttered.

"He's right though," said John. "Put your hand on the table."  
"What? Why?"

John sighed. "Because I'm supposed to be your boyfriend, and that means a little PDA is required."

Sherlock did as he was told, and John took his hand in his own. He would have been lying if he'd said he wasn't glad of the contact with John.

"I thought you were supposed to be the expert," said John. "You can talk the talk but you can't walk the walk."

"I could if I wanted to," said Sherlock. "I was worried about making a straight man like you uncomfortable."

John paused. "So are you saying you're gay, then?"

Sherlock shifted in his chair, feeling uncomfortable. "If I had to label myself then… yes, I suppose I would be gay. I am more attracted to men than I am to women, but neither of them are important to me. Everything else is transport."

John's expression did not change. The man was infuriating- if he didn't react then Sherlock couldn't observe. "Ok then."

Lestrade returned with another course, giving Sherlock a small wink before walking away. _Damn him!_

Sherlock cleared his throat. "So then. Seeing as we are on the subject, how about another lesson?"

"Go on then. What are you going to teach me?"

Sherlock took a sip of his wine. "There is nothing more attractive to a woman than a gentleman, but one capable of great feats of passion."

"Isn't that a little stereotypical, Sherlock?"

"Some stereotypes are true. Now, there are several ways you can do this without becoming Mr Bloody Darcy."

John raised his eyebrows. "I do believe that's two popular cultural references you've made tonight. Is there something wrong? Have you got a fever?" He placed his hand across Sherlock's forehead. It was warm against Sherlock's cold skin.

Sherlock brushed off his hand. "Excuse me for having an education. Do you want to learn or not?"

"Carry on."

"Well, we've covered the clothes already. You shouldn't be over dressed but always smart. The clothes should always be in a good condition."

"Ok."

"When you talk to Sarah, be courteous. Don't swear too much, and when you talk, be prepared to listen. However, the conversation shouldn't be one sided- you must be interested in what she has to say."

"Ok. But what about the… passion bit?" John blushed.

"Look at her, but don't look at her."

"I don't follow."

"Do not stare at her breasts, for one thing, but don't avoid looking at her. You want to appear interested but not a sleaze ball. Let her catch you looking at her hands, her neck, her eyes, but then quickly look away, as if embarrassed. She'll see it as endearing and cute."

"Right…" John looked so dazed by the overload of information that Sherlock found it hard to believe that Sarah didn't already find him cute. If it wasn't for John's own embarrassment then she'd be all over him. Sherlock sighed, and drank some more wine. The evening was going to be long.

**This chapter has run away with itself. I told myself that I'd write the whole evening in one chapter, but it TOTALLY hasn't worked. So, this was a silly, fluffy chapter, but the next chapter will contain the second half of the evening. It should be better… Hopefully. ****Again, have a happy New Year.**


	14. Just Like Heaven

**Hi! I'm desperate to get this story out soon, as school work is gradually taking up all my time. I'm sorry if it takes longer for me to update, blame my teachers and their damn revision classes. Grrrr.**

**IN OTHER NEWS, Sherlock and Benedict Cumberbatch have been nominated for Best Drama and Best Drama performance at the National Television Awards! WOOP! So I've voted many many many many times for them (sorry Doctor Who, I love Sherlock too much!). If you fancy voting, just google ****'NTA'.**

**It's been an odd couple of days- very up and down, you know what I mean? Plus, one of my closest friends has decided he's going to make himself look like Sherlock, so if he succeeds I'm worried that I'll fall hopelessly in love with him XD Troubles for me, but whatever.**** This chapter contains a lot of feelings, and I've tried to explain them as well as possible, but if they're bad, I apologise.**

**P.S Congratulations to be 100****th**** reviewer (YEAH! WOOP!), OryonUK. You win mega-bonus-love-points from me for your luck XD. And also thank you to anyone who'd reviewed- you are all amazing and I love you all.**

_11__:00pm_

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

John smiled, and took a sip of his wine. "You've never asked me my permission to ask something before."

Sherlock blushed. "I was trying to be considerate," he blushed hotly.

John gave him a little grin that made him blush more. "Well, that's very nice of you. You can ask."

Sherlock paused, unsure of how to phrase it. "Why did you ask… _me_, for help?"

John looked faintly puzzled. "What do you mean, why?"

"Well…" said Sherlock, as bemused as John. "As we are both aware, I'm not the best with feelings."

"You seem pretty adept at it to me. You should give yourself more credit."

Sherlock stared at John over the candlelight. It struck him that in the gently ebbing glow of dusk, when the flickering flame of the candles shone in the waning sunlight, John looked even more beautiful. He could see the flare in the reflection of John's eyes, making them burn with a new intensity. They blazed, smouldering with all the warmth of a bonfire, a new fiery torrent exploding from the isolation and darkness and lighting something dangerous with Sherlock's heart. Was this what love felt like? To look into the eyes of a man and feel nothing but sheer desire? To want nothing more than gaze into the shimmering, brilliant heat of them? Was this what if felt like to have the heart burnt out of him?

He realised he had stopped talking. "John," he said, softer than he had intended. "I can manipulate, but not _feel_. I know nothing of love, or lust, and I doubt I ever shall."

The fierce, incandescent gleam in John's eye vanished as he drew back. John's voice too was gentle. "Give yourself more credit. I'm going to the bathroom."

Jeez. He sure knew how to ruin a moment. Sherlock was unable to speak before John left, and he sighed back into his chair. A cold wave of realism seemed to have washed over him. _That's right. Bury the feelings. Bury where no-one can find them and forget they ever happened._

With a sudden pang of horror, he swivelled in his seat. Mycroft was not there. God, he wouldn't have a little chat with John _now_, would he?

"Shit." He rose from his seat, ready to give Mycroft a piece of his mind for potentially ruining an investigation and walking quickly to the bathroom. Peeking through the crack in the door, he saw Mycroft's silhouette pass leaning against a wall facing away from him. As silently as he could, he snuck into the room, managing not to catch the attention of his older brother. He shut himself in a supply cupboard, leaving the door slightly open so he could hear and see the conversation that was going on.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" said a voice angrily. _John_.

"I don't see what it had to do with you," said Mycroft smoothly.

"You didn't think to _tell_ me that Sherlock had a history of depression?"

"It was none of your business. And it is not my secret to tell, John. I'm sure Sherlock would've hated it if I'd told you. Does it not worry you that he didn't tell you?" Sherlock had to stop himself crying out. _That bastard._

"What if he'd relapsed? What if I'd not noticed the signs? _Anything_ could have happened!" John yelled, rage clearly audible in his voice.

"I would have noticed. It does not concern you, not unless he trusts you enough to tell you about his illness." Mycroft's voice was still stuck in its irritating and emotionless monotone, but the words were nevertheless filled with venom. Both John and Sherlock flinched at his words. _He trusted John… He told him. Just not enough._

"Sherlock trusts me."

"But do you trust him?"

John was shaking with fury by this point. "I want to help. I understand him."

"Oh really?" Mycroft spat, for the first time allowing his feelings to show. "Do you understand, Dr Watson? Do you understand what it is like to see someone you love fall apart? To watch them collapse in on themselves? To watch them fade into something less than human? Do you know how it feels? It hurts, it hurts because you know there is nothing, _nothing _you can do to make them feel better. I would have given anything to see Sherlock smile during his childhood, and every time he cried, I cried a little inside. Because depression affects everyone around you, it ruins lives, it rips families apart, and that is something you will never understand because you have never experienced it. It should never have happened to him, not to someone so talented, someone so brilliant. It was like he was dissolving, he lost his lustre. He lost that ever burning passion that made him _Sherlock_. So you tell me, Dr Watson. Do you know what it feels like to watch a person self-destruct?"

John's eyes glistened. "I care about him Mycroft. Let me help."

Mycroft laughed. "You think you can?" he said with a sneer. "Sherlock has jagged edges. He's a diamond in the rough, as it were. He's something beautiful, something incredible, but get too close and he'll make you bleed. He's been broken before, now he's just shards of himself stitched together with heroin. He's sharp, and he'll cut you. Bruise you. Bend you till you break, and he'll leave scars. Deface you so you're damaged and so you'll never forget his presence on your skin."

"Everyone has their scars," said John quietly.

"And you want him to mark you as his own? How interesting," Mycroft's usual haughty, slightly bored tone had returned. "What do you feel for my brother, Dr Watson?"

"He's my friend. My best friend, but nothing more."

"Yet I don't believe you. And in his own special way, I think Sherlock feels the same way as you do."

"Sherlock thinks of me as a friend. I don't care if he doesn't open up to me, if he doesn't trust me, I care about him and I don't want him to be hurt."

Mycroft paused. "Well, at least you're loyal. But I'll warn you now, Dr Watson, Sherlock is capable of many things that people wouldn't expect of him. So are you." Sherlock heard footsteps and saw Mycroft pass out of the bathroom. John was panting slightly, and shortly afterwards Sherlock heard a cubicle door slam. Seizing his chance, he crept out of the room and returned to his seat, his heart shuddering inside his chest.

Shortly afterwards, John returned, looking flushed.

"Everything alright?" said Sherlock, in an attempt at nonchalance. "You were gone a while."

"Queue," said John tersely.

There was a silence. Sherlock relived the moment he had witnessed in his head.

"_Sherlock trusts m__e."_ There had been a definite note of uncertainty in his voice then. Did he doubt he trusted him? After all they had been through?

"My nightmares," said John abruptly.

Sherlock's head span to face John's. "Nightmares?"

"Don't pretend you don't know about them," said John bluntly, but there was no malice in his voice. "You've seen me."

Sherlock was unsure how to respond. What was he doing?

"My dreams," John continued. "I dream about the war."

Sherlock exhaled deeply. He had suspected as much, but had never dared ask. "Of when you were shot?"

"Not just then."

This shocked Sherlock. "Something… else."

"Yes. I'll tell you, but not now. Later. Please not now." John gave Sherlock such a piercing stare it seemed to nail him to his seat. "I trust you Sherlock. Completely."

"… I trust you too."

_11:30pm_

Lestrade returned with desserts, giving them both a whispered update of security before leaving. He certainly seemed to be taking the job in his stride- he was chatting cheerfully with diners, bringing food promptly and had remarkable poise when it came to balancing plates.

"It's like he was made for the job," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes. Clearly he's missed his forte, think of the tips he could get."

Sherlock chuckled. "This dessert is truly delicious, I must say."

John widened his eyes. "So when it's all being paid for by the police force you eat like a horse?"

Sherlock gave him a sly grin. "It's all about motivation, John. If you ever offer me something as tempting as exploiting the police force then I might eat more."

"I'll bear that in mind," John took another bite of an exquisite (but miniscule) dessert, and left a smear of chocolate on his lips. Before he could stop himself, Sherlock had reached across the table and wiped the stain away with his thumb, before licking it clean. John tensed in his seat. It was barely noticeable, but Sherlock had seen. His face fell.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "You had chocolate on your face."

"Don't worry, I'm fine," said John quickly. "Though if you'd wanted some of my dessert, you could have just asked."

_11:50pm_

Sherlock rapped impatiently on the table with his fingers. Ten minutes left, by the clock on his phone, and it was usually accurate. His eyes darted from victim to victim, checking no-one approached them and no-one spoke to them.

There was a metallic noise. Sherlock turned and saw a man tapping a champagne flute with his fork. "I would like to announce," he said in a loud, clear voice, "that the dance floor is now ready."

Dozens of couples rose to their feet, including the potential victims of Moriarty's plot. Staff gathered at the sides of the floor before gradually joining in. Sherlock began to feel queasy- he and John were the only ones who were not dancing.

John stood up. "Come on then." He held out his arm.

"What?" said Sherlock quickly.

"We've got to dance."

"John, we don't have-"

"Yes we do. Just to warn you, I can't dance to save my life."

Half reluctantly, half eagerly, Sherlock took John's outstretched hand and allowed him to lead them down to the dance floor.

"I'm leading," said Sherlock.

"Like hell you are." The track was dangerously slow, played by a string quartet in the corner of the room. John placed an arm on his waist, making his stomach leap to somewhere around chest height. Taking John's arms in his own, he attempted to position himself where he couldn't invade John's privacy too much. However, the crowd seemed to have other ideas- the floor was so crowded they were forced together. They settled into a small, swaying motion which was universally recognised the dance of lovers. Chests crushed closely against each other, John placed his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's back stiffened.

"We have to look like a couple, remember?" John whispered into his ear, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back. "Sorry mate."

Sherlock squirmed a little from the tickling sensation of John's breath on his ear, but soon relaxed. He had never felt so connected to anyone before this. He'd never wanted to be before now- Sherlock had dismissed the idea of such _synchronicity _with another human being. Yet it had all changed. Now it was just him and John, moving together like one person, so close, so _mutual_. He felt like they'd been combined, joined as a whole. John made him a whole.

"Just Like Heaven," John murmured into his ear.

"What?" said Sherlock gently.

"The name of this song. It's a cover of The Cure. Just Like Heaven." He hummed the tune and Sherlock felt it reverberate around his soul.

"That's right. Just Like Heaven."

Sherlock saw a shadow move suddenly in the darkness. Pushing John off him, he began to force his way towards the looming figure. He could faintly hear John following him, the sound of Lestrade's team moving in, but it was like hearing things underwater. It was dulled. Sherlock hit the man with his entire body weight, bringing him down to the floor before he could reach Jasmine Hodell. Pinning him to the ground, Sherlock smiled triumphantly. "We've got you now."

"Excuse me?" the man spluttered. "I'm just a waiter, mate! I don't know what you're on about!"

Sherlock scanned his eyes and took his pulse. He was telling the truth. "Wait, that can't be…" He heard a clock chime. There was a sudden, piercing scream.

With a sudden shiver of horror and revulsion, he turned his head quickly and saw a waitress collapse to the floor. A startlingly crimson gash gleamed on her skin.

"Call an ambulance!"

_1:00am_

Sherlock picked up another pebble and dropped it gently into the lake. One by one, he watched the ripples break the surface of the murky darkness and gently fade. Frightening really, how one little act can do so much damage.


	15. You're So Irrational

**Hello, you lovely person, you. Unfortunately, it's been a crappy day due to the frankly sadistic music department at my school and an overload of coursework. I'm not in the mood for R.E homework, I'd rather do the detention. And as for preparing for a French Writing test… Bleh. Anyway, ****thanks to all of you for the incredible 124 reviews.**

**SHOUT OUT: ****Thetsumanialchemist, mustangwoman, MyriadProBold, RoughDiamond, mostlylol, XMillieX, minlin, ally ally oxenfree, Shona McEvoy, hikarisailorcat, Takaouto, ultraviolet128, pocketwatchgirl, Garden Gnomie, MissMattSmith, Majnoona, Intrepid Inkweaver, autumngold, momentshaveyou, LavKitty, Anglophile Prussian, OryonUK, Slash Superqueen, Suezanne, Shadow Cat17, MacHaleFerSure, Zalacca, Tanya13, elphabathedelirious32, smiles, andeepandy, flamedrAcon and any anonymous reviewers. You are all made of sunshine and loveliness. Apologies if I've spelt your name wrong, or if you've reviewed before and I've missed you- message me and I'll change/add you.**

**A very happy 157****th**** birthday to Mr Sherlock Holmes for the 6th, many happy returns. Is it wrong to love him still? No it is not. In other news, I HAVE STARTED A BLOG. *trumpets* Apparently it helps with getting journalism work experience, so I thought I'd start one. And at the moment, it's completely crap because I've not written anything. But if you want to check it out, just google "crypticnymph" at LiveJournal. Shameless self-promotion there, but whatever.**

_December 7__th_

_3:30am_

The body of Miss Laila Jansen was frighteningly peaceful. She could have been dreaming, no trace of the horrifying expression of terror Sherlock had seen in her otherwise attractive features earlier. She had a relaxed, sleepy smile on her face, her lips coated in a scarlet lipstick that almost matched the shade of the wound on her neck. It was all so _neat_.

John wavered a little at the sight of the body, still unused to seeing the corpses of young women. Sherlock remained as impassive as ever- in fact, if anything, he had gotten worse. His infernal _crush_ on John had distracted him from his work, it had made him careless and this woman had died for it. And whilst Sherlock felt no guilt or sadness, it reaffirmed to him that his feelings were getting in the way of his job.

"We need to find out everything we can about her," said Sherlock coldly to Lestrade. "What do you know?"

"Well, she's lived here for about a year. She emigrated from the Netherlands, as you can probably tell from her name. She's been working for the hotel for around six months now. Apparently she was a lovely girl, very quiet, but she never caused any fuss according to her landlady."

"It's usually the way," said Sherlock dispassionately. It's always the quiet ones. The victims or the murderers, whichever really, but something bad was going to happen whenever 'a quiet one' was involved. They were always- he shuddered at the thought of using the word- the _freaks_.

"Apparently she has no known relatives here in London, but plenty of friends."

Sherlock paced the morgue carefully. "Moriarty hasn't called. He's breaking his pattern."

"I think Moriarty's far too impulsive to ever stick to his own patterns. Those rules he makes himself just inhibit his ability," said John, with surprising insight. Sherlock looked at him quizzically, and John flushed a warm shade of red. "I had a look at that Psychology book Ionescu had," he said hotly.

Sherlock smirked. "Do you think he's waiting to prolong the pleasure?"

John looked gravely at Sherlock. "Yes. He's the one who gets off on crimes, Sherlock, not you."

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "I'm going to get coffee. Come find me if you get a lead. Come on John."

_4:00am_

"This coffee tastes like crap," said John, gingerly holding his mug and giving it a look of disgust.

"Agreed," said Sherlock. "You'd think they'd give the police good coffee, wouldn't you? What with all the hours they have to work." He took another swig of his drink, before noticing that John was giving him a worrying look. "What?"

"You."

"What about me?"

"That girl died. Lestrade says she's twenty three. And you…" He clenched his hands tightly and took a deep breath. "You don't seem to care."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whether or not I care is irrelevant, John. It's not going to help them, as I've told you before. If anything, it's just going to distract me. Feelings get in the way. If I started caring about everyone I would be too busy caring to save them."

There was a brief silence. "I think you should see my therapist," said John, barely audible.

Sherlock scowled at him. "What good would it do?"

"Sherlock, you make me go. If you don't understand the importance of discussing it then I'm going to stop going too."

Sherlock felt a small snarl rise in his throat, angered by John's attempt at emotional blackmail. "You wouldn't." He spat. "It helps you, it helps you to talk about your feelings to someone impartial. For me, there are no emotions that aren't necessary. I would be making them up. Besides, my family tried the 'therapy' route when I was a child, and it didn't work then. I mentally destroyed my last three therapists. I don't need one."

John looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't. Instead he glared down at his cup of coffee, clenching the mug a little tighter than was strictly necessary.

_5:00am_

Sherlock had been absentmindedly leafing through a glossy magazine he had found in the police waiting room. He'd managed to deduce a fair deal of information about various celebrities- he was gay, she was having an affair, he was planning to propose to his girlfriend, the usual- but it had been nothing hard and he was now bored. Sherlock was often surprised by how many cases had boiled down to lust. There were only ever three real motives- sex, money and addiction. He felt his phone vibrate.

_Get down here. Now- GL._

Leaping to his feet, Sherlock tugged John out of his seat and sprinted down the corridor to Lestrade's office. Lestrade was waiting there for them, a peculiar look of excitement on his face.

"What's happened?"

"We've traced the victim back to her old life in the Netherlands. She's got a past."

Sherlock smiled half heartedly, his suspicions confirmed. _It's always the quiet ones. _"And?"

"Well, it turns out she used to live in Amsterdam. Imagine where she worked."

"Ah. She was a prostitute," said Sherlock plainly. John looked slightly embarrassed by the situation.

"Yes. We'll find our answers there."

"So?"

"We're going to Amsterdam."

_10:00am_

Annoyingly, the first flight available was at noon, but this had given Sherlock time to pack his things. He had startlingly few personal possessions, yet he managed to fill a reasonably large suitcase. John had brought a tiny case with him, and Sherlock marvelled at his packing skills. So here they were, standing in Heathrow airport, about to visit Amsterdam. Well, it certainly wasn't the place he'd imagined he'd be earlier that morning.

John, Lestrade and, annoyingly, _Donovan_ were flying over there with him for the investigation, and Sherlock was glad of the company. Though he hated to admit it to himself, he did not enjoy flying. This irrational fear of his irritated him- the chances of a plane crashing were next to nil. He knew this and yet it still terrified him to sit in the craft. The idea of the sheets of steel crushing him, the rapid descent to the ground before the merciful impact, but most of all, those last few minutes. Where the doomed-to-die call their families, to tell them they love them still. Where total strangers huddled together in a metal coffin and cried together. There was unity in such a death, Sherlock thought. A whole range of human emotions were felt by everyone onboard. And he would never experience that.

Sherlock explored the shelves of the newsagent's, trying to something to interest him. He found very little, purchasing a paper and a bottle of water but nothing else. John had browsed the books and bought a war novel (how achingly predictable) and a guide to Amsterdam.

"It says here that Amsterdam has a population of approximately 8.1 million," John said, sitting down on the seats in the terminal.

"Mmm," said Sherlock, not concentrating.

"It was ranked 13th best city in the world for quality of life."

"Mmm,"

"The Amsterdam Stock Exchange is the oldest stock exchange in the world."

"Mmm," They carried on in this fashion for a while, John seemingly unaware that all Sherlock could think about was who he'd ring from a crashing aeroplane.

_12:15pm_

"Hello, this is your captain speaking. My name is Stuart, I'll be your pilot for this afternoon." Sherlock resented the man for his falsely cheery voice. "Welcome aboard this flight to Amsterdam." He fidgeted with the edge of his newspaper, ripping off little strips in his apprehension. John lifted his bag into the overhead locker and sat down next to Sherlock, whacking him around the head with his book.

"What was that for?" He said, rubbing his head angrily.

"For being nervous. Why did you say you were afraid of flying?"

There was a snort of laughter from the seat in front. Sally turned around and smirked at Sherlock. "You're afraid of flying?" she sneered. "You? The great Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock gave her a withering look. "I'm not afraid of flying, I just dislike it." His tone was typically acerbic. "Don't jump to conclusions."

She settled back down in her seat, chuckling to herself still. Sherlock attempted to burn holes in the seat with his eyes. The plane began to move.

_Just a plane, it's just a plane, it's not going to crash, it's perfectly safe…_

He fiddled with his jacket, knuckles whitening. It began to rise into the air and blood seemed to be rushing in Sherlock's ears. He screwed his eyes up tightly.

"Sherlock?" he heard faintly. He opened one eye cautiously.

"Yes?"

"We're level now," said John.

Sherlock gave a sigh of relief. "Right. Thanks."

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Before he could answer, there was a sudden jolt of turbulence, and the plane dropped a few feet. Sherlock blanched and let out a noise somewhere between a moan and a scream. He closed his eyes once more, ready for the screaming, ready for the crash.

"Sherlock?" Again, he heard John's voice.

"John," he said, surprised to hear something like a whimper escape his mouth.

"You're crushing my hand." Sherlock looked down. He had John's hand in a vice like grip, pinning it to the arm rest where it had been resting.

"Oh…" He let go. "I'm sorry, I thought it was the arm rest."

"Don't worry about it." John turned back to his book and began to read. Sherlock thought he heard a chortle from the seats in front. _Damn Donovan_. He got out of his seat without moving John- he had chosen the aisle seat, he disliked seeing how far they were from the ground- and went to the bathroom. Filling the sink with water, he scooped some up and splashed it across his face. Hands trembling from what he told himself was the cold and not fear, he leant against the back wall and closed his eyes. This was illogical. He shouldn't feel this way, he wasn't supposed to, it made him weak, but he did and there was nothing he could do about it. Again, he told himself he was talking about the plane, and not the man sitting next to him.

It has often been said that the gods have no sense of timing, that they bring the things you want just too late. This is untrue, they arrive precisely when they're meant to- it's just their timing benefits them and their entertainment, not you. Sherlock's phone rang.

"Having fun?" Moriarty drawled.

"Not particularly," Sherlock said flatly.

"How's it going?"

"Now why would I tell you that?"

"Because you know I'm not going to change my plans to benefit myself. Where's the fun in that? I want to see if you can solve it."

"I'm not in the mood Moriarty. Leave me alone."

"Don't you want to hear what _I've_ been doing?" Moriarty sounded almost disappointed. "You're supposed to ask back. Manners Sherlock."

"What are you doing then," he said, annoyed by Moriarty's tone.

"I've been thinking about what I'll do if you lose. If you can't solve the last puzzle."

"And what, pray, have you been planning?"

"I'm not sure yet," he giggled. "Am I going large scale? A bomb in a very public place? A food shortage in some third world country? Or something closer to home? Something _personal_?"

Those last few words sent a shiver down his spine. "What?"

"Got to go darling. Ciao!" The phone line went dead.


	16. Beautiful Freak

**Hi. Unfortunately, I have the flu, so I'm stuck at home and not at school (what a shame) feeling thoroughly miserable. So what better to do then write the next chapter? Enjoy**** (Oh, and it's a tad longer than usual).**

_December 7th_

_2:0__0pm_

They had arrived at Amsterdam airport earlier than expected, allowing them plenty of time to check in at their hotel. An indeterminate thought struck Sherlock of how odd they must look- three men, one woman, turning up at the last minute and booking rooms. Sherlock said nothing as Lestrade and John sorted out the details, sitting on the sofa in the lobby with Sally next to him.

"So _freak_," said Sally smugly. "I hear you've got yourself a little crush on Watson."

Sherlock gave her an icy glare. "Then you've heard wrong."

Sally snorted. "Please! I've seen the way you look at him, Holmes." _Just ignore her, don't react. _"The way your eyes sort of _glimmer_ when you see him." _What an interesting plant. _"The way you rake your eyes up and down his body." _Such lovely petals. _"I bet you just want to screw him over and over and-"

Sally's taunts proved too much for Sherlock. "Fuck off Donovan." He hadn't been able to stop himself, and clearly Sally's actions had produced what she had hoped for.

"So it's true? I was just teasing you, but _now_ I think you really do have a thing for him," she sneered. "You realise he's straight, don't you? And even so, who'd want to be in a relationship with you? Or is that not what you're after? You want someone you can fuck with no strings attached."

"Shut up will you? I'm trying to work." They sat in angry silence until John and Lestrade returned. John had an odd expression on his face.

"Here's your room key," he handed Sherlock a key card. "My room's 208, Sally's is 209, and you and John will be in 210."

"Me and John?" said Sherlock, attempting to keep the strain out of his voice.

"Yeah. The police can't afford to give us all separate rooms, Sherlock. Some of us had to share-"

"What about you and Donovan?" he said accusingly.

"We can't share Sherlock! It would be completely unprofessional. So you two had to. You're flat mates, how hard can it be? It's not like you'll be sleeping together." John said nothing, and Sherlock mumbled something inaudible to the rest of them. "Right. For official reasons, you two can't be seen sneaking around with the police. It's been bad enough trying to get _us_ to liaison with the Dutch force, let alone two ama-" He broke off at the look on Sherlock's face. "-consulting detectives. It's just not allowed- but we do need you on call at all times."

"So what are we supposed to do until then?" said John.

"I don't know, sightsee? Order from the mini bar? Amuse yourself until this evening- then you'll have a job to do."

_5__:00pm_

Three hours later, Sherlock was yet to "amuse" himself. He was lying back on the hotel bed, planning an elaborate scheme for revenge against Sally, but the retaliatory part of his mind seemed to be having creative block.

He was vaguely aware of a coat landing on his face. "John?" he said, then realised that the sound would be muffled by the clothing. He wrenched it from his head. "What are you doing?"

"We're going out."

"Where?" Sherlock pulled on his coat.

"Anywhere," said John. "This is my first trip to Amsterdam and probably my last. I want to see what it has to offer. We're going to some museums, okay?"

Sherlock groaned but stood up to leave with John. "Like what?"

"Well, first off, I thought we'd do Anne Frank's house. You do know who Anne Frank was, right?" he said, a little condescendingly.

"Yes I know who she was. Don't patronise me," he snapped, but John just laughed.

Anne Frank's house was around twenty five minutes from the hotel, in the very centre of Amsterdam. The house itself was incredibly tall, like all houses in the city, made of red brick and had large dark windows. Sherlock and John travelled through the building in respectful silence until they reached the bookcase that hid the entrance to the annex where Anne Frank had hidden.

"They used this space for the archives. There was no reason for them to suspect that they were hiding Jews in there."

Sherlock said nothing. It wasn't that he was bored by the house; he just had other things on his mind. As interesting as the rooms could be, it would never compare to the complexities of the latest case. Should he feel bad for saying that? He supposed he should, but couldn't bring himself to, his familiar sociopathic tendencies returning.

They walked through the door. It was larger than Sherlock had expected- he had imagined an impossibly small room behind the door, but he could still not imagine anyone ever having lived there. Inside the living room, they saw a life left seemingly untouched- as if the families who had lived there had popped out for a moment and never returned. Which, when Sherlock thought, was exactly what happened. Through a door to their right was Anne's bedroom. She'd stuck up pictures on the walls in an effort to brighten her day- film stars, royals, even pieces of artwork. Again, the room looked so intact and unblemished by the passage of time; he found it hard to believe that the family had been discovered a good sixty-five years earlier.

Sherlock saw that John was stunned silent. He saw the glisten of a tear in John's eye- and come to mention it, in the eyes of everyone in the room. He alone had remained unmoved by the house and its contents. He was going through cycles of hypersensitivity- well, in his rather limited experience- and then numbness- all too familiar. He should have been upset, but he wasn't. Maybe he was a freak.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

_Red Light district, now. We're interviewing a few old "colleagues"- GL._

Sherlock didn't wish to drag John away from the museum but the case called. He was aware of other tourists giving him the sort of look that was usually reserved for the kind of person who said "But what was so _bad_ about the Holocaust?" for checking his phone.

"John?" he said quietly. "We have to go."

_7:00pm_

Sherlock and John tried incredibly hard to look inconspicuous whilst entering the Red Light district. It wasn't a natural fit for either of them- John was an incredibly private man when it came to sex, and if Sherlock had had anything to be private about, so would he. They tried to ignore the sex shops by making frantically inane conversation.

Eventually they saw Lestrade and Sally loitering outside another shop. Sherlock was reassured to find that Lestrade looked as uncomfortable as they did.

"It's, um, over there," he coughed, scratching the back of his head and blushing. He knocked on the door of a building, the windows lit by bright lights. There were several prostitutes in the windows, all giving them dazzling smiles and beckoning suggestively. Sherlock suddenly felt very protective of John.

"Spreek je Engels?" said Lestrade to a scantily dressed young woman, holding up his badge. "Britse politie."

She nodded and brought them through, looking rather anxious. There were many young women there, some who looked scarcely older than eighteen. A red headed woman walked over to Lestrade and put her arm around him.

"English?" she said, her voice heavily accented. "You are looking for a good time?"

"Yes, and er, no," he said awkwardly, brushing her off and flushing a deep red. "We are the police. Could you tell us where Miss Adriana van Bruggen is?"

The woman looked rather disappointed. Clearly Lestrade was a better class of customer. "Adriana," she called. A dark haired young girl, one of the youngest there in fact, approached them.

"Is something wrong?" Her English was far better than most of the others.

"You were friends with Laila Jansen?"

"Yes I- what do you mean, were?"

"Is there somewhere quiet we can talk about this?"

She took them all into a private back room. They collectively tried not to think what this room was used for. Adriana sat down on a sofa.

"What has happened to Laila?"

"I'm afraid Laila Jansen was found dead early this morning. She was murdered."

Adriana burst into floods of tears. Sally gave Lestrade a burning look that seemed to say '_you're so bloody tactless sometimes_', and began to comfort her.

"I'm sorry, but we need to know all we can about her," said Lestrade gently.

"She worked here for a while," she said between sobs. "She was here before me. I came because the money was good, and she looked after me. She looked after all the girls, even the older ones," Her cries became louder.

"But you especially?"

"Yes," she wailed. "I am an orphan, like she was. She was like a mother to me!" Adriana yet again howled into Sally's shoulder.

Lestrade looked unsure of how to deal with such a delicate situation without seeming oafish or cumbersome. "I, er, do you know if she had anyone who would wish to-"

"Kill her?" said Adriana. "Never. She was the nicest girl anyone would want to meet. I cannot think who would do this to her."

_8:00pm_

They didn't manage to get much out of Adriana after that. She was too distraught by the death of her friend that she was unable to speak coherently.

"I don't understand," said Lestrade weakly. "Who would want to kill this girl? She was so ordinary."

"In Moriarty's opinion, she was evil," said Sherlock. "He's made himself a sort of bringer-of-justice, like he's passing righteous judgement."

"But she sounds like a lovely person, according to Miss van Bruggen," said John.

"The difference between Moriarty and you is that he judges people not on who they are but how interesting they are. He prizes his games with me because we are intellectual equals. A lowly prostitute was _nothing_ to him. He considers a lack of intelligence a punishable sin."

They stayed quiet for a while until they arrived back at their rooms. Sally and Lestrade gathered in room 210, sitting down noiselessly and wondering what to do next.

Sally was the first to speak. "I don't know about you," she said to them all. "But I am _really_ desperate for a fucking drink."

"Is now really the time?" Lestrade asked tentatively, but Sally was already opening the mini bar.

"Yes. I am on holiday- I want to order room service and get pissed, ok? None of you are going to stop me."

"I second that," said John, taking a bottle that Sally was offering them. Lestrade reluctantly followed.

"What about you, Sherlock?" she said finally, handing him a beer. Sherlock was visibly taken aback. She had never called him by his first name, not even the first time they met.

"I don't drink a lot," he said flatly.

"Oh come on Sherlock," said Lestrade. "Stop being so bloody mechanical and get shit faced, will you?"

John shot him a grin. Well how could he refuse that?

_11:00pm_

In retrospect, getting shit faced was not the best idea. John had began to paint on the bathroom mirror with shaving foam, and Lestrade had passed out with his face in a bowl of spaghetti bolognaise- he was not a strong drinker. Neither for that matter was Sherlock, and he was now utterly off his head.

"Sssssally!" He slurred, pulling her into a tight hug. She giggled. "You arrre an evil _bitch_, y-you know that?"

"And you!" she garbled. "Are a f-f-f,"

"Ha!" Sherlock snorted. "You caaaan't even insssult me!"

They both collapsed onto the floor, chortling merrily. John came back in, eyes wide and gleaming.

"Hey!" he yelled, far too loudly. "I've got an idea." Out of them all, John had managed to stay the most sober, clearly used to drunken idiots whilst in the army. However, it had made him… mischievous. John turned over the still zoned out Lestrade with surprising ease. He took a pen from his pocket. Seeing what John had planned, Sherlock and Sally began to cackle and took out their own pens. Whilst drawing on Lestrade's face, there was a strange thought in Sherlock's drunken head. Sally was a good person to be drunk with. He was sure he'd regret this in the morning, but for the moment it was hilarious and he needed to loosen up. Getting smashed with Sally and John was the most fun he'd had in years.

Some time later, Sherlock began to sober up. He'd knocked back a few too many beers too early- he'd always been a light weight when it came to alcohol- but the effects were beginning to wear off. Sherlock glanced at John and saw that he too was beginning to feel the effects.

"Fuck," he moaned. "My head fucking _kills_."

Sally was still managing to amuse herself by laughing at the Dutch television. "Their lllllanguage is so funnnnny!" She rolled around on the floor, convulsing with the hilarity of the moment.

"Maybe we should take Lestrade back to his room," said Sherlock, getting to his feet a little unsteadily.

"Yeah," said John. "Help me with him." They lifted Lestrade to his feet and walked him gently to his room, lying him down on his bed.

"What do we do now?" said John. "Just leave him?"

"Unless you want to undress him, yes," said Sherlock. John seemed to agree that this was not an inviting idea.

"Sally," said John as they entered their own room again. "You've got to go back now."

"Awww, why?" she whined, stamping her feet like a petulant child. Unfortunately, this made her overbalance, but Sherlock caught her before she fell.

"Woah, there. C'mon." She hung on Sherlock as they walked to the door.

"Sherlock?"

"Ye-" As Sherlock turned his head, Sally kissed him lightly on the lips. Horrified by the events now unfolding, he pushed her away. She was still grinning.

"I still think you're a freak," she said, stumbling into her room. "But you're a beautiful freak."

Sherlock shut the door, and heard a crash from her room. He had planned on forgetting the moment had ever happened, when he heard hoots of hysterical laughter. John had followed them into the corridor.

"Shut up," Sherlock groaned, pushing his way back into the room. John was clutching the doorframe for support, positively howling with laughter.

"Hey, you can use this as revenge for her calling you freak!" He smiled at Sherlock, walking into the bathroom and swaying slightly.

Sherlock grinned. "I suppose I can." He quickly changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed, falling immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep. It had been a good evening.

_3:00am_

Sherlock awoke with a moan. The hung-over feeling that he had not experienced since university had returned with a vengeance. He glanced at the time on his phone and groaned. Walking into the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. Sherlock saw the words written on the mirror in shaving foam- "Lestrade fancies Donovan"- and grinned. Only then did he hear the whimpers coming from the bedroom. Sherlock froze. Not now. Please, not now. Walking cautiously back into their room, Sherlock listened carefully. He must have imagined it. Just as he was about to get back into bed, he heard John's soft cry again, but this time it continued and grew louder and louder into a terrifying crescendo.

"Please," John gasped in his sleep. "Please, God, let me live. Please, not me. Please. Please!" With the final word he woke up, bolting upright in bed and panting. Sherlock was not sure what to do. He could hardly pretend he had not witnessed John's terror.

"Are you alright?" He said carefully.

"Yes," said John, his voice cracking.

"Are you sure?"

"No." John broke, tears beginning to stream down his face. Sherlock's body acted without his brain's permission, sitting down on the bed and pulling John into a tight hug. John did not pull away, but buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

John shook his head and mumbled "Later." Sherlock grabbed a tissue and wiped John's eyes.

"I'm sorry," John cried. "You must think I'm so _stupid_."

"Never, John, never," said Sherlock softly.

"Can you-" John hesitated and stopped the rest of the sentence.

"Can I?"

"It doesn't matter."

"John," Sherlock gripped his shoulders tightly, forcing John to look him in the eye. "It matters to me."

"… Stay," he whispered. "Can you stay? Here? Just so I have someone with me?"

"Yes," said Sherlock's mouth, without hesitation. His mind didn't seem to catch up with the events until he thought about it later. He got into John's bed, lying down beside him.

"Thank you," John murmured, closing his eyes. It didn't take them long to fall asleep.


	17. Fucked Up and Numb

**Hey there. A brief warning- this chapter= COMPLETE FLUFF. Very little plot goes on, just lots of Sherlock and John quality time**** and a teensie bit of character development. I'm sorry it's taken so long to get such a pointless chapter out, but I've had a whole lot of school work, plus a day paintballing against my will and the sudden and terrible realisation that I am hopelessly devoted to someone. Cue for lots of physical and emotional pain, so the chapter's a little crap, but I hope you can forgive me. Love you all!**

_December 8__th_

_9:00am_

When Sherlock awoke, he realised two things. Firstly, he had a feeling in his head that was rather like being shot. Secondly, he wasn't sure how, but he found himself a lot closer to John than he had been when he had fallen asleep. John's head was resting on his body, his lips almost but not quite touching the point where his neck met his shoulder. John's warm breath tickled his neck and sent jolts of something like pleasure down his spine. His own arm had snaked around John's waist, his hand settling just above the waistband of John's pyjama bottoms. For a few dazed moments, Sherlock sat in relative contentment, before his brain caught up with him. He jerked his hand away and sat up in the bed with a loud clunk as his head collided with the wall behind him. Silently cursing, he lifted his flatmate's head from his lap where it now lay- albeit reluctantly- and gently shifted John's body back into a more naturalistic position. Sherlock got out of bed and staggered to the bathroom, clutching at his head and moaning due to the lacerating quality of the morning light on his eyes. He emptied the wash bag that John had brought with him onto the surface, hands scrambling for the packet of paracetamol. Finally having found what he was looking for; Sherlock took two white pills and swallowed them desperately.

He heard a familiar groan from the room he had just left. Grabbing a bottle of water and the painkillers, he sat down on the edge of John's bed. He too seemed to be in pain, bringing the scratchy duvet up over his face and howling into his pillow.

"I drank too much," he lamented.

"So far, so obvious," Sherlock said dryly, pulling back the covers.

John cried out when the sunlight hit his face and screwed his eyes up tight. "Leave me alone," he whined. "I can't go out to day, I feel like crap."

"Well you'd best get better then. Here." Sherlock brought the bottle up to John's lips and he reluctantly took a sip. "You're hung-over because you're dehydrated. You need to drink." A trickle of water ran down John's chin, and Sherlock wiped it away with his thumb.

"Thanks," John said with a smile, but his face suddenly fell. "What did we do last night?"

Sherlock glanced around the room. Bottles littered the floor, which also contained evidence of the spaghetti they had ordered to eat the previous evening. From what Sherlock could gather, they must have had some sort of food fight, as the meal seemed to be everywhere. There were even strands of pasta hanging from the _lampshade_.

"Why the hell did we let them come in here?" said Sherlock weakly.

"Er, from what I can remember, it was _us_ that did most of this," John replied. "I drew on the mirror. You started throwing food at Sally. Lestrade was unconscious for most of the night."

Inexplicably, Sherlock began to laugh. John joined in too, until they were both curled up on the carpet in fits of raucous laughter from the memory of their soon to be infamous evening.

_9:30am_

John and Sherlock arrived down in the dining room of the hotel just in time for breakfast. They were surprised to find Lestrade and Sally already down there, sitting at a table by the window. Lestrade beckoned them over cheerily, astonishingly coherent considering his previously fatigued state.

"Feeling alright?" he said convivially, giving them a cheery grin.

John stared open mouthed at him. "How- How can you- How are you-"

"What he means is," Sherlock interrupted, "how are you feeling this good? You passed out last night."

"Slept like an angel," Lestrade said with a smile, but then he frowned. "Oh, and by the way," he said sternly to Sherlock. "I'll ban you from the Yard if you draw on my face again."

John began to giggle. "Sorry Lestrade, that was my idea."

Lestrade gaped. "You bloody bastard! That took me _ages_ to get off!"

Sherlock smirked and turned to Sally, who had not yet said anything. "Alright, Sally?"

She did not answer, instead choosing to scowl at Sherlock through dark sunglasses and taking a sip of her coffee.

"She's feeling a bit…" Lestrade searched for a phrase. "Under the weather."

"She looks it," said Sherlock coolly, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"Fuck off," said Sally bluntly.

"There was no need for that," Sherlock teased. "I was only observing-"

"I don't want to hear about your observations," she butted in, her tone acidic and biting. "I don't want to hear _anything_ from you, you fucking freak."

"Correction Sally," John chimed in. "You _beautiful_ fucking freak."

Sally choked on her coffee, and Sherlock once again began to shriek with hysterical laughter.

Lestrade looked confused. "Have I missed something?"

"Oh nothing," said Sherlock, wiping a tear from his eye. "Nothing at all." He gave Sally a somewhat smug look that seemed to say "I'm saving this one for later" and continued. "Back to business. We're seriously far behind, we have no idea who the next victim is, and John and I aren't allowed to question potential victims."

"Well, there's nothing we can do about that," said Lestrade apologetically. "But we'll give it our best shot. If it gets to four o'clock and we haven't had a lead, we'll meet you back at the hotel for an emergency meeting. Ok?"

Sherlock nodded curtly, still annoyed at the idea of not being allowed in on the case, and stood up. John too rose from his seat. "Right," he said cordially. "We've got more museums to visit."

Sherlock groaned. "Do we have to?"

"Yes. Now come on." John set off towards the lifts. Sherlock was about to follow before Lestrade stopped him.

"Can I have a word?"

"Sure." Lestrade took him aside, away from the table. "What's this about?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you alright?" He asked, looking concerned.

Sherlock had to laugh. "Yes!" he said genuinely. "I'm fine."

"How's John?"

"Er, fine I think," he replied, bewildered by Lestrade's odd behaviour. "What's up with you?"

"Oh nothing. I just checked on you two this morning, to see if you were ok…" Lestrade trailed off but gave Sherlock a meaningful look.

Sherlock froze. "How did you get in?" he said quietly.

"Spare room key. And you know what I saw."

"I don't know how it happened," he said truthfully.

"What? How you got into John's bed?" Lestrade glared at Sherlock, a little angrily. "Because if anything happened between you two, and it goes bad, it could compromise this whole investigation."

"Nothing happened!" Sherlock spluttered. "John and I… We just… We slept in the same bed, but nothing went on."

"Why were you in the same bed anyway?" he asked.

Sherlock forced himself to meet Lestrade's gaze. "I can't really tell you that."

Lestrade sighed. "You're going to a museum with him."

"Isn't that what tourists do?"

"You're hardly the average tourist, Sherlock, and you clearly don't want to go. For anyone else you wouldn't, but for him," Lestrade took a deep breath. "For him you'll do it. Why?"

"Surely it would be better for the sake of my home life to oblige in my flatmate's bizarre ideas of fun?" Sherlock mumbled evasively.

"You introduce John like he's your partner. It's always 'John and I need to question' of 'John and I are investigating'."

"He is my partner. Professionally."

"For the time being," said Lestrade flatly, giving Sherlock a stare so penetrating that it made his blood freeze. "But tell me this- how many people have you _ever_ changed yourself for?"

Sherlock did not, could not, answer.

_11:00am_

The Van Gogh museum was large and grey, very angular and cold next to the period buildings that surrounded it. It was incredibly imposing, and it seemed to loom over Sherlock as they walked up the path towards it.

"So have you heard of Van Gogh?" said John, again a little patronisingly.

This time however, he had good reason to be. "Er…" Sherlock scratched his head. "I've seen his name on books in Mycroft's library."

"Well, this will be an experience for you," said John, beaming at the woman at reception and buying two tickets.

_11:30am_

Sherlock stared blankly at the painting of _The Potato Eaters_, trying to find some meaning in it. John stood in rapturous silence, gazing at the painting and admiring the brushwork.

"I never knew you liked art so much," Sherlock muttered.

"Well, to be honest, I don't. I more admire the man."

"Why? What was so special about him?"

John stared at Sherlock like he'd committed a particularly gruesome murder before his eyes. "_What was so special about him?_ Sherlock, he's one of history's greatest painters. He was unbelievably talented, but never got the recognition he deserved in his lifetime. It drove him to insanity."

They began to move on to other paintings, one of which grabbed Sherlock's attention. He glanced at the card beside it. It was entitled "Paul Gauguin's Armchair." It seemed horribly melancholic. A lonely pile of paper and a candle sat upon the seat, illuminating the room. Whilst the colours were bright, they clashed morbidly, the green, purple, yellow and red creating a garish mood of depression. Yet the painting was, in its own way, quite beautiful. Sherlock was unsure why he was drawn to it, but it seemed to speak volumes to him.

"Who was Paul Gauguin?" he asked John as they moved onwards.

"A French post-impressionist artist. He was…, well, I wouldn't say _good_ friends with Van Gogh, but they lived together for a short time. They liked each other but their relationship was stormy. Van Gogh believed Gauguin was about to desert him."

"Why?"

"It was his condition. Well, they're not exactly sure what it was- schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, epilepsy… Whatever it was, he wasn't well."

They reached a final, dark picture called "Wheat fields with Crows". The dark, murky sky again clashed beautifully with the ochre of the fields, alluringly tragic and stunningly tormented. Again the picture drew the eye easily, oddly hypnotising. Sherlock finally managed to break his gaze to read a large board. It was covered in quotes from Van Gogh.

"_Love always brings difficulties, that is true, but the good side of it is that it gives energy."_

"_What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?"_

"_I put my heart and soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process."_

"_How can I be useful, of what service can I be? There is something inside me, what can it be?"_

"_You write in your letter something which I sometimes feel also: Sometimes I do not know how I shall pull through."_

"_I wish they would only take me as I am."_

Sherlock was snapped out of his trance by the sound of John's voice.

"There was a guy who I was training to become a medic officer. His name was Danny." He was still staring transfixed at the painting, seemingly unable to wrench his eyes from it. His tone was dangerously quiet.

"He liked life. He was always the one who suggested going out and having a laugh- and he could play the guitar like a pro. I always thought he was going to become famous after his time in the army, and I used to tell him that he'd have to introduce me to a supermodel." John laughed coldly. "We all loved Danny. Danny Summers, his name was. We nicknamed him 'Flash' because he was such a fast runner. He used to run everyday."

Sherlock was unsure whether to speak. "Used to?"

"One day Danny was out on patrol with the regiment, one of the first times he'd been left as the most senior medic. A friend of his was shot. Shot badly. Danny tried to help, but there was… There was nothing he could do." John clenched his fists. "He was never the same. We all thought he was dealing with it, we thought he was handling it. He locked himself in his room during his free time; he rarely spoke to anyone else. He was numb. He started to do puzzles; I suppose he was trying to distract himself. But he preferred the puzzles to people. He only came out to get medication for his headaches. He got a lot of headaches, and he came to me. That was the only time I really saw him. I gave him the drugs. I _gave_ him the drugs he took at the end. It turns out he was stockpiling all the paracetamol I gave him for months. Downed them all after drinking a bottle of whisky."

John had still not turned to face Sherlock, staring blankly at the picture. The most agonising thing for Sherlock was that he was not angry, nor upset. He was… exactly as he described Danny. Numb.

"John," he said hoarsely. "It wasn't your fault."

John turned to him and gave him a bright smile. "Do you want to go to the gift shop?"

Sherlock paused. "John…"

"I want to get a book on him. Such an interesting guy…" He began to wander towards the staircase.

_4:00pm_

Sherlock and John had eaten a nice lunch at a small café nearby, neither mentioning John's outburst but instead making polite conversation about the canals. John had dragged Sherlock round some gift shops, probing him as to whether Mrs Hudson would like this and if Harry would like that. In the end, John bought Mrs Hudson a bottle of Dutch wine and Harry a cashmere designer jumper. Though John never spent much on himself, he splashed out on others, and Sherlock admired this. Finally, John had decided there was one more thing he wanted to do.

"The Rijksmuseum?" Sherlock had moaned.

"Yes."

"More art?" he had protested.

"Yes. It's an education."

So there they were, Sherlock trailing around after John whilst he gazed at the paintings. Sherlock was thoroughly sick of art, he did not see its appeal. The works here, in his opinion, were far inferior to that of Van Gogh, and he hadn't enjoyed them greatly either. He sat, sulking in the centre of the gallery, watching John wait patiently to get his turn to see _The Night Watch_ by Rembrandt. He wasn't getting very far- in his very polite, British way, he was allowing people to push in front of him.

Sherlock's hands were clamped around his phone, desperate not to miss the call that _must_ be coming, it _had_ to be. But there was still no shrill tinny tone from his mobile.

John emerged from the crowd, grinning. "I got there eventually. It's bigger than I thought it was going to be."

"Good," said Sherlock vaguely, before putting on a stern expression. "We need to go see Lestrade, we're out of time."

John looked crestfallen. "Crap. Ok, there's only one more room to see on the way out." They walked through to a large gallery with surprisingly few paintings in it. Sherlock stuck close behind John, silently willing him to hurry up.

Minutes passed. John was still browsing the art. "John, we have to go," Sherlock said abruptly. "_Now_."

"One more painting!" John cried, and moved to the final piece.

Sherlock scowled. "John! How the hell do you expect me to _solve_ this damn case if we're stuck in an art gallery-"

"Sherlock-"

"I mean, you're the one who's always telling me to think about the _people_-"

"Sherlock-"

"Someone will die if I don't get out of here-"

"Sherlock, look at the damn painting!"

Sherlock turned. He saw a large painting of a woman by a window. "What about it?"

"Look at the name. Look at the artist."

Sherlock squinted at the small card beside it. _Johannes Vermeer, The Milkmaid. _Sherlock inhaled sharply. "No…" he gasped.

"It looks like Moriarty's a fan. Vermeer? The Milkmaid? It fits Sherlock, this has to be it!" John beamed at him. "This painting will lead us to the next victim."


	18. Saint Gregory

**Hey… Sorry for not updating in a while, my workload has been immense. History assessments, the retake of the History assessment (I **_**only**_** got an A. Some people are never happy), a French assessment, another French assessment, revision for the final French assessment, the deadline for my Music coursework… I'm sorry, please forgive me!**

**The last couple of weeks have been decidedly bleh and boring and beige. The highlight of it was my conversation with my friend's toy unicorn over Facebook. This, incidentally, has started a small craze of Unicorn profiles in my year.**

**On the other hand, I did go to London for my sister's 17****th**** birthday. We went to see Wicked, but it was effectively an excuse for me to squeal at Sherlock locations. Annoyingly, we didn't get to go to Baker Street *cries* but we saw a great deal of other places, such as the part of the Thames where Alex Woodbridge was found, Tottenham (which after Ten O'clock Live, I shall refer to as "The Tottenham" ;D) Court Road and the skater park from The Blind Banker. I think I upset some Londoners by screaming at the top of my voice every time I spotted a location used. I certainly frightened some tourists.**

**Not an awful lot happens in this chapter, I'm afraid. It's very Lestrade centered and more build up than anything. So, sorry.**

**Also, I'm upgrading the story to an M. The reasons are unfortunately not slashy… Awww. It's not going to happen in this chapter… well, you'll see. Sorry for being so cryptic (ROFL I made a pun *is proud*), but I don't want to give it away. It's only a precaution. God, I'm explaining this horribly. Shut up Bethan : )**

_December 8__th_

_5:00pm_

"Isn't it obvious?" he cried, smiling gleefully at Lestrade's bewildered expression.

"Er, no," said Lestrade in a bland monotone, clearly used to Sherlock's accidentally-on-purpose insults.

Sherlock smirked. "The next victim is the owner of the painting. Examine the card beside the painting."

Lestrade bowed his head slightly to read it. "'The Milkmaid, Johannes Vermeer. Oil on Canvas, On loan from Private Collection'." Lestrade smiled coldly. "Ok, but what I don't get is the connection to Laila Jansen."

Sherlock sighed in his exasperation. "At the time, milkmaids had a bit of a reputation."

"For?" said Lestrade, confused.

"For being up for it," said Sally bluntly.

A blush crept up Lestrade's cheeks. "Oh. Well, that explains it then. How did you do it?"

Sherlock smiled at John. "It was all John, actually."

He beamed at Sherlock proudly.

"His hideous attempt to be contemporary and fashionable led us to the painting."

John's grin flickered and he gave Sherlock a playful glare. He returned it with a smirk.

Lestrade sighed. "So who's the owner?"

"The 6th Baron of Duncombe Park, Gordon Feversham. British aristocrat, married, one child. He lives in Yorkshire. We'll have to get over there as quickly as possible."

_11:00pm_

Sherlock sat in the police car and stared blankly out the rain spattered windows. He disliked travelling in official vehicles, especially when he was relegated to sitting in the back seat- this had given Sally particular pleasure- but this was urgent, and at least he got to sit by John. Sherlock was trying, desperately, to think. This was proving remarkably difficult, as Lestrade had forced Valium down his throat when he had begun to panic about the flight, and now he was feeling irritatingly relaxed. Fear was an advantage when trying to solve a crime, and whilst Sherlock did not fear for the victim, he was always afraid that he might get this one wrong. That he might _lose_.

John was asleep. It figured- the poor man must have been exhausted from the evening that had just passed. The flight had been long and laborious due to delays, turbulence and Sherlock informing an airhostess that her sister was sleeping with her boyfriend- they'd nearly thrown him off the flight for "harassing staff members". By the time they pulled into the large country manor it was late- and it was imperative that they protected Gordon Feversham at once.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" said the aforementioned Baron upon greeting them. They had been let in by a housekeeper and had been sitting patiently in a grand baroque living area. "It's eleven o'clock at night! My wife and I are trying to sleep!"

Lestrade stood up. "Mr Feversham-"

"_Baron_ Feversham," he interrupted.

"_Baron_ Feversham, then," Lestrade sighed irritably. "I'm afraid you may be in great danger."

"Danger? Preposterous. How so?"

"We believe there is a very dangerous man who wants you killed."

"Killed?" There was still a tone of disbelief in Feversham's voice. "Nonsense. You must have me confused with someone else."

"We really don't. Can you confirm for us that you are the current owner of the painting 'The Milkmaid' by Johannes Vermeer?"

"Well yes." He paused. "I don't see what that has to do with anything…"  
Lestrade recounted the tale to Feversham, all the while a look of despair growing on the Baron's face.

"But why me?" he said, his voice shaking a little. "I've- I've never met this man!"

"No, you probably haven't. What you have to understand is that this is all part of a larger game. He's taunting someone."

"Who?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Me."

"And you are?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective."

There was the barest hint of a smile on Feversham's face. "Holmes, you say?"

Sherlock remained impassive. "Yes."

"Any relation to Theodore and Adeline Holmes?"

"Yes. My parents," he said coldly.

Feversham beamed. "A noble family. I knew your father, a fine man. Such honour and dignity."

"You knew my mother too?" There was a tinge of something… uncertain in Sherlock's voice which he did not like to hear. Something raw.

"No, but I knew of her." Feversham said this much more coldly. "Of her _reputation_."

Sherlock gripped the edge of the seat he was sitting in but said nothing, instead glaring at the pompous, upper class fool across the room. There was a long and awkward silence before Lestrade spoke.

"_Anyway_, we're here to protect you and to question you in relation to a potential murder. So please, stay by us. We will keep you safe."

Sherlock glanced at his phone. The horrible thing was, if he got it wrong, he couldn't find out until it was too late. When Moriarty called.

_11:59pm_

The time ticked by in silence for agonisingly long. Lestrade and John guarded Feversham fiercely- Lestrade deftly ignoring the fact that John had _somehow_ managed to get his gun through customs. Finally, the moment had arrived.

Lestrade glanced at his watch. "Five seconds…"

Everyone in the room braced themselves for an attack. Lestrade's watch began to beep. Midnight.

There was a moment of terrifying reticence before Sherlock's phone began to ring. There was a loud exhaling of breath from everyone except Sherlock, who grabbed his phone eagerly.

"Hello."

"You figured it out. I'm impressed. I was sure you'd miss that one."

Sherlock was startled to find himself relieved at the sound of Moriarty's voice. "You underestimated me."

"I underestimated your _pet_." Moriarty spat the word, and Sherlock grinned at the annoyance in his voice.

"He's cleverer than you give him credit for."

"He's clever than _you_ give him credit for."

"Please stop repeating everything I say. It's awfully childish."

"And you're childishly awful," Moriarty said impishly, giggling at his own joke. "Well, congratulations, in any case. I hope you enjoy this next one. I'd sleep if I were you- how do you expect that gorgeous brain of yours to be working if you don't let it rest? I want you on your best game Sherlock."

"Whatever you say," Sherlock said coldly.

Moriarty giggled. "So submissive, Sherlock? I never had you as the type to be dominated. If you're that desperate you should have just said…"

This touched a nerve. "I don't want anything from you," Sherlock growled, his anger ready to overflow.

"But who _do_ you want it from?"

Sherlock tensed. "What?"

Moriarty laughed cruelly. "Oh, nothing. I'd best be off. Places to go, people to see. See you later!" His tone was irritatingly musical before he ended the call, the dial tone ringing in Sherlock's ears.

_December 9th_

_9:00am_

Sherlock, John and the official police team had been put up in a nearby guest house. This time, Sherlock had been placed in a different room to John. He still wasn't sure why he was so annoyed about this. They'd all gotten some much needed rest that night, safe and secure in the knowledge that they had two days left to solve the crime. In Sherlock's opinion, some of the local police officers were far too cocky- they seemed overly certain that they could solve the case quicker than the London police could. Perhaps they didn't get as much crime, perhaps it wasn't as serious, but stand Lestrade next to a Yorkshire police officer and you saw the difference. The slumped shoulders, the aged face, the tired eyes. The marks of a man who's seen too much too young.

The next morning, he, John, Lestrade and Sally had arrived at the house of Gordon Feversham promptly. The same housekeeper had answered the door, and they had waited in the same living room, however a young woman had instead greeted them.

"Hi," she said, her voice neither rich and opulent nor containing any hints of a Yorkshire accent. From what Sherlock could deduce, she was from a middle class part of Birmingham. "I'm Kayleigh, Gordon's wife." She shook hands with each of them. "I hear there is a serious matter involving my husband." Her voice was steady but her eyes betrayed her- thought there was a tinge of something uncertain within them that would require further observation to deduce.

"Mrs Feversham, would you like to sit down?" said Lestrade kindly.

She did so, perching carefully on the edge of a seat. "Could you explain it to me? Gordon was awfully cryptic…"

"There have been a series of murders-" She gripped the edge of her seat at that moment "-that have led us to your husband. We have prevented his murder-"

"There was a risk that he could have died?" She did not seem concerned, more surprised. "Gordon's not the type to make enemies."

"I'm sure he's not. These don't seem to be personal attacks, though they're to do with a connection with the killer, however tenuous it may be."

"So, you mean to say that he will strike again?"

"Yes, and to someone connected to your husband."

"Who?"

"We don't know that yet. It could be anyone."

She was about to speak, before there was a tentative knock at the door. A small boy, no more than around seven or eight, was shuffling nervously towards them.

"Oh God," said Kayleigh. "I'm sorry. Frasier, Mummy will come play with you in a moment."

He nodded but said nothing, wordlessly walking towards the door again.

"I'm sorry about that," she said apologetically. "He's awfully protective of me."

"May I ask what he's doing at home on a Thursday?" said Lestrade, not unkindly. "It's a school day."

"Oh, I home school him," she explained. "He has a very weak immune system, and can't go out much. Besides, Gordon thought it would be better if I stayed at home to look after him." There was a touch of sadness in her voice.

Lestrade smiled. "Well he's very sweet. I have three of my own actually."

Sherlock gazed silently out of the window, ignoring the eager conversation between Lestrade and Kayleigh Feversham about their children. He was far too interested in the case to listen to such a boring subject. These days, all Lestrade talked about was his children. Maybe it was his age. He'd become increasingly sentimental.

Of course, his tragic personal life hadn't helped. Selina Lestrade had been a beautiful and successful doctor before her death. Perhaps if it had been a violent or brutal murder, Lestrade would have been able to deal with it. But it hadn't. It was, and Sherlock was sure John would scold him for even thinking so, _dull_. She fell asleep in the bath and drowned. Hardly a dramatic death. The tragedy of her death was how Lestrade had tried to revive her, had desperately pleaded with the hospital staff to keep trying to resuscitate her. Sherlock had not been at the funeral- she had died two years before they ever met- but he had heard the other officers whispering about the beautiful speech he had made whenever it was close to the anniversary of her death. This, Sherlock realised with a jolt, was startlingly soon. He had not cried; Lestrade was far too private a man to do that in front of others. No, he had simply listed his regrets. That they had never been to Paris. That he hadn't bought her the necklace she'd always seen in the window of a shop in North London. That he'd never got round to redecorating their living room. So whilst Lestrade's life had disintegrated around him, he had remained stoic. A beacon of decorum in a world that was slowly destroying itself from the inside. Sherlock was sure that one day Lestrade would be unable to take the strain. Occasionally he saw it in his eyes- when he brushed his thumb over the wedding ring he still wore or when he glanced at her picture on his desk. The only constant in his life was the ghost of the woman he had loved.

The other officers called him Saint Gregory. He was cool, calm and collected. He never over reacted. He never got angry. He was the ideal officer. Only a few knew he kept a bottle of whiskey in the bottom of his desk for when he got depressed. That and some of her perfume.

Lestrade was no saint. But he was a better man than the job deserved.


	19. Oil and Water

**I'M SORRY. SO SO SORRY. It's been a horrific amount of time since I updated, and I'm really sorry. I can't believe I haven't written since the seventh… ****Jeez, I must do better. It's been hectic at school, what with my Maths Exam on 2****nd**** March that I really really really have to pass. Luckily, half term enables me to revise… If only I could be bothered. But it means more time to pretend to be revising whilst **_**actually**_** writing FanFiction! YAY! I felt guilty about the amount of time I've left the story, so I'm updating four chapters at once. Be under no pressure to review them- I get that it takes forever to get through reviewing stuff, especially with multiple chapters, so don't worry. For some reason, these chapters just don't feel right… I'm sorry if they're a bit below par. Thanks.**

_December 9th_

_1:00pm_

The team had settled for a brief lunch break. Sherlock didn't eat anything, preferring to sit hunched over in a chair, scowling at the others for wasting their time. Lestrade had been too busy talking to Kayleigh Feversham about children to really get anything out of her, and John had started admiring the _architecture_, for God's sake. He was the only one taking this seriously.

John, Sally and Lestrade were all sat together, eating Marks and Spencer's sandwiches and chatting happily. He didn't want to be with them, but felt that somehow he should, like this was the normal thing to do. That was what he should feel. He knew that in his heart he was a drop of oil in an ocean. He would float on the surface of their world and contaminate everything that dared to stray close to him. Oil and water. Things that shouldn't meet. Like art and science. Like an unstoppable force and an immovable object.

Gordon Feversham gave Sherlock a stern look upon entering the room and seeing he had his feet on the furniture. Sherlock did not move. "I'm afraid," he said with a twinge of annoyance, "that we are hosting a party tonight and will be unable to help you during this time."

"With all due respect, sir," said Lestrade politely. "This is far more important than a party. Someone's life is at stake."

"This is one of the biggest social events of the year!" Feversham gaped at them. "It's certainly the most important one of the Christmas period. The Feversham Christmas party marks the beginning of Christmas festivities." As he spoke, Sherlock could see various servants hanging Christmas decorations elaborately in the large hall. It made his and John's small strands of tinsel feel rather inadequate.

"I'm sure we can stay out of your way, Baron," said Lestrade plainly, his voice firm enough to show that he wasn't going to budge on this matter.

"But you can all come to the party!" said Kayleigh, smiling brightly at them.

"Kayleigh," Gordon said sternly. "I thought I told you, you can't just invite anyone you like to this party. It is for the social elite, I don't want-"

"A bunch of police officers spoiling the atmosphere?" said Lestrade.

Kayleigh's face had fallen. "I'm sorry, darling."

Gordon smiled smugly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a party to plan."

"Mr Feversham," said Sherlock, deliberately forgetting the 'Baron'. "I'm afraid we'll need a bit more of your time."

Gordon frowned at them as if they had asked him to spend six months in a war torn country to collect samples of a rare tree sap. He sat down in an arm chair. "Well?"

"You are undoubtedly a wealthy man. May I ask where your money comes from?"

"Family wealth," he said with a priggish smile. "But I have my own investments in various ventures."

"Such as?"

"Property mostly. New building developments in particular."

"Right. Any other important sources of income?"

"Oh, not much. I have shares in a few high status companies, several rental properties that earn me a bit- and of course I have a great deal of art work and other items that I lend to museums, for a small fee of course." His damp, oozing grin was oddly unnerving.

"Could you find these records for us? They may give us a connection to the killer."

"Of course, but it'll take a while. I don't see why this is necessary- how will you know who this man is targeting next anyway?"

"He has a certain pattern. We can't tell you too much about it."

Gordon bristled. "Well, I feel that seeing as _my_ life was at stake, I have I right to know."

"Sorry," Sherlock said coldly, not sorry at all. Every part of his personality clashed with the man. He was the kind of person he had strived all his life to escape from. "Lestrade, I'm going to have a think. I'm going for a walk." He gave John a look, trying to express that he wanted him to come with him without explicitly saying it. Mercifully, John got what he had tried to say.

"Yeah, I'll join you. I could do with the fresh air."

_2:00pm_

It was cold but the sky was clear, letting icy bursts of sunshine occasionally blind Sherlock with their dazzling light. John was a few steps behind Sherlock, trying to keep up with his frantic pace.

"Slow down, Sherlock," John said hurriedly. "Walks are supposed to be at, well, _walking_ pace."

Sherlock did not answer, preferring to lie down on the grass. It was damp from the morning's frost but he did not care. His mind was on other things.

John stopped beside him, hesitated, and then sat down next to him.

"Beautiful estate, this," John said absentmindedly.

Again, Sherlock did not answer, instead staring up at the dully empty sky.

"It must take a lot of money to keep everything in order."

"Yes," Sherlock said finally. "I imagine it does."

"I can't really see the attraction of this place myself."

Sherlock smiled at his words. "Really?"

"Yeah," John lay back on the grass. "I mean, the grounds and everything are beautiful but… it's such a cold house. There's nothing warm about it. I'd hate to be their child; it must be no fun to grow up in a house like this."

Sherlock hesitated, wondering whether to tell him what he had been about to say. He was about to change the subject, but John gave him a warm smile that seemed to melt the frozen ground beneath him.

"_I_ grew up in a house like this."

"Oh, really?" John sounded intrigued.

"Yes. My father was an aristocrat, one of the wealthiest in Britain. He was forty when he married my mother, who was twenty three at the time."

"A big age gap then,"  
"Yes, it happens in a lot of families- just look at Gordon Feversham. Kayleigh's got to be at least ten years younger than him."

"So did you like it there?"

Sherlock sent John a 'you know the answer to that already' look, and John's face fell. "Oh."

Sherlock sat up and gazed out onto the grounds of the house. He did not wish to look at John when he said this.

"My mother married out of convenience and duty, not love. She didn't even like my father; he wasn't a particularly nice person. Everything a man of social status should be, but nothing else."

"Are they still married?"

"They're both dead." The silence hung in the cold winter's air. He still avoided looking at John for fear of becoming sentimental at the caring look he was sure to be giving him.

He felt John's hand on his shoulder, and warmth spread through his body. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"I'm fine," he interrupted. "It was a long time ago." He forced a bright smile and turned back to John who, he now realised, was very close to him.

"Where did you grow up then?" Sherlock asked him.

"London. I've always lived in London- my parents like cities. We had a house in Islington. It was pretty normal. No grand country homes."

Sherlock laughed, and lay back once more. John had an uncanny ability to relax him, no matter how much a case was troubling him. John collapsed back onto the grass too, turning to talk to Sherlock properly.

"I used to think I wanted a normal life," John said with a smile. "A house, a garden, a wife," Sherlock swallowed hard at this last word, "but then I joined the army and I realised I needed adventure."

"You had a bit too much of an adventure there," Sherlock noted, glancing at the spot where he knew John's scar was.

John chuckled. "Well, yes. Though it's nothing to what we've done together. You've changed everything."

Sherlock's mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say to that? He glanced at John, who returned it. Something unreadable lay behind the tawny eyes that Sherlock sought to unravel, to no avail. There was a brief moment of silence before John spoke.

"God that sounded weird, sorry. What I mean is, my life would be so different if I hadn't met you."

"Better?"

"God, no."

Sherlock smiled. "Come on. Fancy sneaking round the house for a bit?"

John grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

_3:00pm_

Sherlock and John had no real idea of where they were going, but they both knew that Feversham would be enormously pissed off if he found them in his bedroom. This proved to be more of an incentive than a deterrent. Sherlock snuck into the ensuite bathroom, leaving John in the bedroom, and began to search through the drawers.

_Shaving foam…__Shower Gel…Toothpaste… _Everything seemed in order. It was incredible how insightful looking through someone's possessions could be sometimes, but Sherlock could derive little of any interest from them in this case. He walked back into the bedroom, only to find John talking to the small boy that they had seen earlier.

"How old are you then?" he asked kindly.

"Eight. Please don't talk down to me," he said plainly, and John looked a little taken aback. His voice was child like, but his tone stern. The way he spoke was like he had heard the words before, but didn't quite understand them.

Sherlock smiled. "He's right you know John, you shouldn't treat him like he's stupid. Frasier, isn't it?"

"Yes. Who are you?" he said bluntly, folding his arms.

"I'm Sherlock, and this is John. We're here to talk to your father."

"So why are you in his bedroom?" He asked suspiciously, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock smiled again, intrigued by the child. "Why were you?"

Frasier rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking down. "Please don't tell," he said quietly.

"I won't if you don't, how about that?"

Frasier grinned. "Ok. Will you be my friend, Sherlock?"

It was Sherlock's turn to be shocked. "Erm, ok. Can John be your friend too?"

"Sure," he smiled at John. "Do you want to see my room?"

"Of course," said John, and they followed Frasier into a room at the end of the long hallway. It was large, and someone had painted a sky scene onto the ceiling. Large white clouds covered the room, and models of planes hung from every available spot.

"You like planes then?" said John, attempting to engage with the child. He shot him an "Isn't that obvious?' look that was reminiscent of Sherlock's own withering glares. John seemed to know this, and smirked at his flatmate. "Good God, there's two of you."

Sherlock shot him a playful frown, and sat on the small bed. "Do you mind being so far away from your parents' bedroom?"

Frasier sat next to him, holding one of his toys in his arms. "It's the only room. I did ask once if I could move into the room next door… but that's Daddy's office. And I'd make too much noise, that's what Daddy said."

John glanced at a few drawings stuck on a board nearby. "Did you draw these, Frasier?"

"Oh no!" he smiled delightedly. "Mummy drew them. Mummy is great at drawing- she painted my room." He pointed up at the sky on his ceiling. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's great."

"What's your bedroom like, John?"

John chuckled. "Not as nice as this. And not as big as _his_," he gestured at Sherlock, who laughed. "Because _he_ chose the rooms."

"Oh!" Frasier looked surprised.

"What?" said Sherlock.

"Nothing…" he laughed sweetly. "I just thought that you two were…"

John and Sherlock's mouths fell open, both startled by what they thought Frasier might be implying. The kid was _eight_, for God's sake. "What?" Sherlock gasped.

"Well, you said that you live together. And you play together- I saw you out my window sitting on the grass. Aren't you boyfriends?"

"No!" said John, flushing a deep red. John did seem to get very flustered when people thought they were a couple, but never to this extent. Perhaps it was the shock of a child asking about his sexuality? Or, muttered a voice in the back of his head, perhaps it was that Sherlock's attraction to him was obvious even to an eight year old? "Sherlock and I are just friends. We live together. That's it- and how do you know about… _that_ kind of thing, anyway Frasier?"

Frasier looked upset, as if he'd done something wrong. "I looked it up. Someone called me it, so I looked at a dictionary. It doesn't seem bad to me."

"Of course it's not," said Sherlock softly. "But- who called you that, Frasier?"

"Oh, just a boy," he twiddled his thumbs together, avoiding looking at Sherlock or John. "It doesn't matter. He's stupid."

This saddened Sherlock. This child's life eerily echoed his own. The father. The mother. The taunts from other children. "You're right. Because even if you were, it wouldn't be a bad thing, ok? So don't let him get to you."

Frasier began to smile. "Ok."

"How old did you say you were, Frasier?" John asked.

"Eight."

"Well you're very insightful. I feel really stupid when you and Sherlock are around."

"Don't worry, you'll learn," said Frasier smugly, and Sherlock laughed.

The door creaked open, and in came an exhausted looking Kayleigh Feversham. "Frasier, darling, I-" She spotted Sherlock and John and jumped. "God, you frightened me. How did you get up here?" She saw them exchange a guilty look. "I'm not upset!" She attempted to clarify her meaning. "I was just wondering."

"When we need to, John and I can get just about anywhere. We were just talking to Frasier about your paintings," he gestured to the sides of the room, "They're very good."

"Oh, thank you!" she smiled. "I used to paint quite a lot, but I don't any more. I still draw with Frasier though. Have you been having a nice time?"

This last question was directed at her son, and he nodded. "We were playing."

"That's good dar-" She stopped, and an idea seemed to strike her. "Oh, God, you couldn't do me a huge favour could you?"

"That depends," said John. "What is it?"

"Well, I've just had a call from the baby sitter and she won't be able to make it tonight- flu, the poor dear. I would have to stay up here all night and they were relying on me to welcome guests and organise things and God knows what else, so- and I know this is a massive pain but- could you possibly sit here with him?" She smiled earnestly, clearly a woman with too much to do in too little time.

"I don't know…" said Sherlock warily.

Frasier pulled on his jacket. "Please. I don't want to stop Mummy having fun, and I hate being on my own."

Usually, he would've refused point blank to look after another person's child, but he was having some difficulty saying no. Frasier was the first child he'd met that he could actually stand, as he didn't drool everywhere or ask stupid questions. Kayleigh seemed to be silently begging him, and he saw nothing but genuine concern for her son in her eyes. Sherlock looked at John, unsure what to do and asking him with his eyes to make the decision for him. This was a mistake- John was a sucker for kids. He yielded. "Sure," John said. "We'll have fun, won't we Frasier?"

Frasier smiled delightedly. Sherlock sighed- he should be investigating. But maybe he was being overly serious. He'd get time to probe the child about what was happening in the house.

_6:00pm_

When Lestrade found them, Sherlock had already inspected the entire house for anything that was out of the ordinary and sat down in an office area. This search had been unsuccessful- either the Fevershams were as respectable as they took painstaking efforts to appear, or they were very good at hiding their secrets. Sherlock suspected the latter.

"We've examined the list of business associates."

"And?"

"No links to be found yet."

Sherlock put his head in his hands and groaned. "Are you sure?"

"Well, there has to be one. We'll keep looking."

Sherlock sighed. "Give copies of the files to John and I. We're babysitting this evening, so I suspect we'll need to keep busy."

Lestrade snorted. "You? Babysit? _Seriously_?"

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade, whilst John failed to control his giggles. "Yes, I am capable of human compassion, thank you!"

Lestrade chuckled. "You just don't seem the type…"

"What's wrong with me? I could be friendly to children if I wanted!" he snapped angrily. John patted him on the back encouragingly, and all the blazing irritation within him seemed to subside at his touch.

Lestrade sat down in an arm chair. "So, do you think there's anything suspicious about the couple?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing strictly criminal. Morally perhaps, but nothing that would stand up in court. They will have made sure of that. I _say_ they- there doesn't seem to be anything really wrong with Kayleigh Feversham."

"Beats me why she married him," said John sadly. "Any man would be lucky to have her- why stay with a slime ball like Gordon?"

Sherlock couldn't help but feel a little jealous at John's words. "His money."

"You think she's a gold digger?" said Lestrade in disbelief.

"No. I think she came from a family that expected her to marry someone rich. That explains the estrangement in the marriage."

"What? Estrangement- how?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he half-sneered at Lestrade. "When we told her there was a threat to her husband's life, she was neither concerned nor angry. This suggests that she doesn't care for Feversham. She doesn't love him, but she doesn't hate him either, however she tensed visibly before we specified Gordon. She feared for her own life, but why? She then looked at the photo on the table of her son. Why would she do that? Because she knew that if he was left alone, he would be brought up by his father. Why would that be a problem? Because he is a cruel, heartless man who treats his son like he is a possession or a right, not a person!" It took Sherlock a while to realise he'd gradually grown louder whilst speaking, until he was nearly shouting. There was a dull silence.

Lestrade coughed. "Er, well, the guests will be arriving soon. Get up to see Frasier, will you, or I won't here the end of it from that pompous prat Feversham."


	20. Collide and Crumble

_7:30pm_

It had been an interesting evening so far. Sherlock and John had gone upstairs to look after Frasier half an hour before the guests had arrived, and found him watching television.

Sherlock was now hurling abuse at the TV.

"This programme is unrealistic!" he cried, scowling at the screen. "A mouse? In a reggae band? It's ridiculous!"

"Lighten up, Sherlock!" John laughed.

"Why should I? This programme is nonsensical. Mice have no concept of Rastafarianism! How absurd! I'm not even counting that it's wearing a hat, T-Shirt and dreadlocks, let alone this _Rastamouse_'s frankly surreal ability to play the guitar."

"You're just annoyed we're not watching Raven anymore," Frasier smirked.

Sherlock frowned. "Raven is a quality piece of programming. Plus you get to laugh at children falling over and guessing the answers to riddles wrongly. They're all so stupid, the answers are obvious!"

John simply smiled and carried on watching the mouse sing.

_8:00pm_

"10…9…8…7…6," Sherlock sighed. "5,4,3,2,1. I'm coming!" Hide and seek. The world's only consulting detective was playing hide and seek. With his flatmate and an eight year old. What was happening to his life?

He walked into the bathroom, scanning the surroundings. One thing that struck him was how good John was at not being found when he wanted to be. He could stay deathly quiet and still with little effort- it must have been the army training.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a cupboard that was slightly ajar. Smirking, he wrenched it open and was about to launch into a triumphant victory speech- when he realised they weren't there.

He heard a giggle, and a muffled "Shush!". Sherlock turned and saw that both of them had been behind the door all this time.

"You're not supposed to hide together!" Sherlock pouted.

John laughed. "Where does it say that in the rules?"

Sherlock went to speak, but John's superior knowledge of children's games seemed to have him beaten. "Fine," he muttered.

"Behind the door," John said smugly. "You didn't check- rookie mistake."

"It's my turn to seek now!" said Frasier brightly. He turned his back and covered his eyes. "10…"

John silently beckoned for Sherlock to come with him. They crept into Frasier's bedroom.

"Where do we hide?" Sherlock hissed.

John searched frantically around the room. Never had a game felt so tense- Sherlock later scolded himself for his lack of grip. John's eyes fell on the wardrobe. "Here!"

"That's tiny!" Sherlock protested. "We'll never fit!"

"3…" came a loud call from the corridor.

"There's no time!" John whispered. "Get in!"

They crammed into the tiny wardrobe. Sherlock's head hit the ceiling painfully.

"FU-" John clamped his hand over Sherlock's mouth, muffling the sound. Sherlock shut his mouth and allowed himself to lean against the side. He slid down the wood a little, trying to keep his back straight by moving his legs across to the other side. All he succeeded in doing was entangling John's legs with his own. John tripped and put a hand out to steady himself- he staggered forwards until his head was agonizingly close to Sherlock's.

"Sorry about that," he muttered.

"'S fine," Sherlock said quietly, trying to control the slight shake in his voice. John was incredibly warm, and around an inch and a half away from him. He tried to straighten up in order to rectify the situation, but it only made it worse. Sherlock's nose brushed against John's.

The sudden touch made Sherlock feel achingly desperate to kiss John. Their eyes locked again.

_Breath_, he told himself. He exhaled deeply, the expiration gently moving John's hair. John licked his lips torturously slowly, and Sherlock felt his lips moving down to meet them despite himself. They were far too close.

The door was hurled open. "Found you!"

Sherlock flung his head back and it collided with the side of the wardrobe violently. He promptly fell out of the wardrobe, pulling John with him into a heap on the carpet. They both groaned in pain.

Frasier laughed. "That was easier than I thought it was going to be. I could hear Sherlock breathing from ages away."

Sherlock found himself blushing. "Shall we play something else?"

_8:30pm_

Tag had been, in retrospect, a terrible idea. Sherlock and John had collapsed onto Frasier's bed after half an hour due to fatigue. The boy's seemingly endless supply of energy had shamed them into submission. They had both considered themselves fit and active young men, but their defeat at the hands of a child had made them both feel rather middle aged.

Frasier grinned. "We don't have to run around any more, if you're too tired."

"That…" Sherlock panted. "Would… Be… _Fantastic_."

Frasier pulled out a box from under his bed. It was filled with Play-Dough. "You want to try it?"

_10:30pm_

Letting Sherlock and John play with Play-Dough was an even worse idea on Frasier's part than Tag had been. Soon, Sherlock was making an ambitious castle out of purple and green Play-Dough, whilst John and Frasier had begun work on the people who would live there. They had made Sherlock, John, Frasier, Lestrade, Sally (Who Frasier had described as "the angry lady", much to Sherlock's amusement) and Kayleigh. John had offered to make Gordon, but Frasier had flatly declined. His father was not allowed in his Play-Dough kingdom.

Finally, they had finished their creations, and began to play. Sherlock controlled John, and John controlled Sherlock, making each other suitably ridiculous to the delight of Frasier. However, it was Frasier who had the best imagination, creating characters, adventures and even crimes for Play-Dough Sherlock and John to solve as easily as a crime writer.

"You're good at this," said John, impressed. "Do you like stories, Frasier?"

"Yeah," he smiled. "Mummy tells me them all the time. She makes up the best ones."

"So did my mother," said Sherlock happily. "She told me one about a man who stole cobwebs from spiders and weaved them into clothes for the shadow people. It was my favourite."

"It sounds cool…" said Frasier, stifling a huge yawn.

"Come on Frasier," said John, glancing at his watch. "You should really go to bed now."

"Awwww…" he protested, trying to keep his eyes open with some difficulty. Sherlock picked him up and tucked him into his bed- he had changed into his pyjamas earlier in order to avoid getting Play-Dough on his clothes. Sherlock and John had no such worries. "Will you read me a story?" he asked sweetly. "Mummy always reads me one before I go to sleep."

"Ok," Sherlock chuckled. "But only a short one."

"There's a book on the shelf over there," He pointed at the bookshelf. "The red one."

Sherlock picked it up. A Hans Christian Andersen anthology… He sat on the end of the bed.

"Let me see… Ok, how about this one. The Princess and the Pea. _There was once a prince who wished to marry a princess- but a real princess she had to be._" Frasier settled down, and John sat down on the rug with his back against the radiator. "_So he travelled all the world over to find one; yet in every case something was wrong. Princesses there were in plenty, yet he could never be sure that they were the genuine article; there was always something, this or that, that just didn't seem as it should be. At last he came back home, quite downhearted for he did so want to have a real princess._

"_One evening there was a fearful storm; thunder raged, lightening flashed, rain poured down in torrents- it was horrifying. In the midst of it all someone knocked at the palace door, and the old king went to open it. Standing there was a princess. But, goodness! What a state she was in! The water ran down her hair and her clothes, through the tips of her shoes and out at the heels. Still, she _said_ she was a real princess._

"_Well, we'll find out soon enough, the old queen thought. She didn't say a word, though, but went into the spare bedroom, took off all the bedclothes and laid a small pea on the mattress. Then she piled twenty more mattresses on top of it, and twenty eiderdowns over that. There the princess was to sleep that night. When morning came, they asked her how she had slept._

'_Oh, shockingly! Not a wink of sleep the whole night long! Heaven knows what was in the bed, but I lay on something hard that has made me black and blue all over. It was unspeakable.'_

_Now they were sure that here was a real princess, since she had felt the pea through twenty eiderdowns and twenty mattresses. Only a real princess could be so sensitive. So the prince married her: no need to search any further. The pea was put in a museum; you can go and see it for yourself if no one has taken it. There's a fine story for you!_*" Sherlock stopped reading, and saw that Frasier was fast asleep. He smiled, in spite of himself. He sat down on the floor beside John.

"He really likes you, you know," John grinned at him. "You really _can_ be nice to children if you like."

"I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. Who knew children could be so tiring?"

"Tell me about it," John groaned, then stopped himself when he remembered the sleeping Frasier. "You're a very good story teller," John whispered. "So absorbed in the book. You should read Jackanory."

"Sorry, what?"

John shook his head. "Never mind."

"I had fun," said Sherlock, shocked by this revelation. "It was nice."

John laughed. "God forbid you should ever have fun when it doesn't involve dead bodies."

"It has been known to happen occasionally," Sherlock grinned.

"You should be playful more often." John's voice was low, and it sent a jolt of pleasure and confusion through Sherlock's already shaken emotional receptors. This evening had been… interesting. The debacle with the wardrobe had been most intriguing. John had not mentioned the fact that Sherlock had tried to kiss him yet- surely he must have noticed? Perhaps it was his imagination, but Sherlock could have sworn he saw John's head tilt to meet his own.

John smiled at him. "So I'm going to see Sarah when we go back." And he was back down to Earth. Sarah had the same effect on his libido as a bucket of cold water.

"Oh," he said, in an attempt to be nonchalant.

"I'm kind of nervous, actually," said John sadly. "What if I-" He stopped himself.

"If you?"

"If she thinks I'm stupid?"

Sherlock had to stop himself laughing at how adorable the man was. "If she thinks you're stupid then she doesn't deserve you."

John smiled. "Thanks Sherlock."

"No problem. Just don't go all sentimental on me about her, will you? It's rather irritating," he half joked. John gave him a cheerful shove. Sherlock responded by stealing his phone out of his pocket.

"Sherlock," John smiled. "Give it here."

"Make me," he smirked, waving it above his head. John's hands scrambled at Sherlock's arm, trying to tug it down, but he did not yield.

"I _will_ get it back," John said determinedly.

"Yeah, _sure_ you will," Sherlock scoffed. He held it still higher. With an almighty heave, John grabbed the collar of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him towards him. Too hard. Their faces collided, their lips brushed.

The moment seemed to smoulder in Sherlock's mind for an eternity. Never had he felt more alive, more complete in his entire life. The most chaste of kisses seemed like a burning, fiery oblivion, and Sherlock realised what John awakened in him. Two things that should never have met, like oil and water, like art and science, like an unstoppable force and an immovable object, collided in a blazing passion that made him whole then blew him apart. John undid him.

This all happened in just under a second, before they both became aware of what they were doing and drew apart. John looked shocked. Sherlock blushed.

"Did you _eat_ the Play-Dough, Sherlock? Your lips taste of plastic," John laughed, getting up from the ground.

"Not that I'm aware of," Sherlock said with a forced smile. They sat in an awkward silence for a moment, before Kayleigh mercifully opened the door.

"Hi!" she whispered. "Thanks so much for looking after him!"

"It was nothing," Sherlock assured her.

"He wasn't any trouble, was he?"

"None at all," said John.

She gave him a look of concern. "Are you alright? You look a bit flustered."

John scratched the back of his head. "I'm fine! Just fine!" He walked out into the hallway. Sherlock nodded at her before walking back downstairs with John.

Neither said a word to each other. Sherlock assumed John still felt awkward about what happened. He was feeling both apprehensive and ecstatic about the kiss. He knew he should be worried in case his feelings were exposed, but at that moment he was too happy to care. This high was better than any drugs he'd ever taken. At the moment he didn't care about the consequences.

***This vers****ion of The Princess and the Pea was taken from my copy of "Tales of Hans Christian Andersen", translated by Naomi Lewis. The work is hers, and his, not mine. **


	21. Swans

_December 10__th_

_9:00am_

Sherlock awoke with a pain in his skull that felt like a hangover. He touched his hand to the back of his head, to find that the wound there had opened up again. Wincing, he washed the blood from his fingers, observing briefly how dazzlingly red it looked against the pale flesh of his hand. In all his time at crime scenes and examining bodies, he had never seen two shades of blood the same. They were as unique as the person themselves, imprinted on their soul like a fingerprint. His was jewel bright, a shining scarlet colour. Lestrade's was a dark red, almost burgundy. John's was a deep, rich crimson, and it reminded Sherlock of wine and indulgence.

He knocked on John's door just hard enough to wake him if he was asleep. "Are you awake?"

John opened the door. "Yeah, just coming now." He grabbed his jacket, which had been thrown over a chair, and began to put it on as they walked down the corridor of the guest house. They stopped at Lestrade's room.

"Good job you're here," Lestrade said as way of a greeting when he answered their knocks. They stepped inside to find an exhausted looking Sally staring blankly at a pile of files. "Did you look over Feversham's business accounts last night?"

John and Sherlock looked guiltily at each other. "Er," said Sherlock. "We got a bit distracted."

Sally glared at them both. "You had a nice time babysitting then?" she spat venomously at them.

"Yes, actually," said John coolly. "Frasier's a nice kid."

"The same can't be said for his father," said Lestrade.

"What?" said Sherlock. "Did you find a connection?"

"Yes actually," Lestrade said, more than a bit pleased with himself. "There's only one we can find. Gordon Feversham's newest property venture is a planned housing estate, around 2 hours from here. Mostly 3 bedroom houses, a few larger places as well. But it's going to be a huge place, and he's planning to build it in a previously public piece of land. However, there have been reports of rare black swans having made their home there so they're going through a legal battle."

Sherlock laughed happily. "Swans. Brilliant! So who's the target?"

"We have absolutely no idea."

_11:30am_

The large plot of land was undoubtedly beautiful. There were many tall oak trees, which must have been hundreds of years old, surrounding many animal habitats that were essential for the ecosystem around them, or so Sherlock was told. He stepped out of the police car, into a large pool of mud.

"Nice parking, Lestrade," he muttered, wiping his shoes on the grass in annoyance. There was a large huddle of people in the distance, who seemed to be chanting something that Sherlock couldn't quite make out.

"Protesters?" he asked John.

"Looks like it." They all walked down towards the cluster of people, and the shouts became gradually louder as they approached until they could finally tell what was being said.

"_Save the black swan!_"

"_Stop destroying natural beauty!_"

"_Feversham's a murderer!_"

Lestrade walked nervously through the crowd, flashing his badge at the demonstrators. "Excuse me," he said, loudly and clearly. "Let us through."

A young woman with vivid red hair stood up on a small raised area that had been assembled. "Are you with the police?"

"Yes."

The crowd began to angrily jeer. "You can't stop us objecting!" The girl cried. "This is our rally and we'll do whatever it takes to stop Gordon Feversham building his site here!" The group roared in approval.

"We're not here to stop you!" said Sally. "We're here on an unrelated matter, but we need to get through. Step aside please!" Reluctantly, the crowd parted to let them through, turning back to their sit in. A dark haired, middle aged man caught up with John.

"Hey," he said, a little breathlessly from his run. "What's this about?"

"I'm afraid I can't say," said John apologetically. "Sorry." They walked to a large wooden building, presumably the place where visitors to the forest could get information.

"Excuse me," said Lestrade to an elderly woman behind the desk. "I'm with the police."

"Have you come to take the protesters away?" she asked wearily. "They mean well, honestly, they just get a little over excited at times."

"No, they're fine. We're here in relation to a potential crime."

The woman looked grave. "Can I help you?"

"We need a list of all personnel on site. Can we get that?"  
"Yes of course… But what is this about?"

"It's for the safety of the staff, I assure you. We need as much information as possible."

"Well, they're all on the computer."

"Great," Lestrade turned to them. "Sally, you go with Mrs…"

"Mrs Doyle."  
"Mrs Doyle, and I'll go interview some protesters. We can't rule out the possibility that one of them is targeted. Sherlock… you do whatever it is that you do at a time like this. Go think. That's your area, isn't it?"

_2:30pm_

Sherlock walked a few paces behind John, his lack of enthusiasm evident in the way he dragged his feet. John had assured him that if they saw this swan, Sherlock would receive a sudden burst of inspiration. So far, Sherlock had had no revelation about the potential victim of Moriarty's next attack, having no data to go on. He'd already sat through a pained lunch, eating organic sandwiches that tasted faintly of cardboard and drinking watery tea. Now John had dragged him on some quest to find a rare bird which he had no interest in, in the vain hope that he would have a stroke of inspiration. Sherlock was not convinced.

"Is this really necessary?" Sherlock grumbled, watching John fiddle with the large map he had bought.

"Yes," he said plainly. "You never know, eh? Besides, you said yourself, we can't really do much until we've heard back from Sally and Lestrade. You may as well."

Sherlock trudged on through the mud stubbornly, frowning at the back of John's head.

After a while, they reached a clearing in the trees, which opened onto a pool of water. Sherlock couldn't decide if it was a huge pond or a tiny lake, but it was remarkably picturesque for what it was. The sun was in just the right position for the beams of light to create rainbows and patterns on the surface- and in the distance, Sherlock was sure he could see several dark birds swimming there.

Silently, John and Sherlock began to approach them, creeping towards where they knew the swans were. They managed to get within a metre from them before the birds flew away in shock.

John cursed under his breath. "So close…"

"Never mind," Sherlock sighed. He saw down on the grass nearby, and John joined him.

"Any ideas?" said John hopefully.

"None yet. Of course, it seems like it has to be one of the people protesting or one of the people who works here, but… it doesn't seem right."

He looked at John, who seemed to hesitate before speaking. "Sherlock… Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."  
"…How did you mother die?"

Sherlock froze for the briefest of moments. "She died of liver cancer, when I was eleven. She was thirty seven."

"God, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked-"

"It's fine. I was raised by my father for the rest of my childhood."

The bitterness in his voice must have been evident. "You didn't get on?"

"You could say that." Sherlock clenched his hands open and closed. "He was a bad man. A cruel man. A distant man. No wonder my mother did what she did."

"What?"

Sherlock sighed. "My mother had an affair. With a gardener," He laughed coldly. "Talk about clichéd. This was between the births of Mycroft and I. My father found out whilst she was pregnant with me."

"That must have destroyed him."

"Hardly. You genuinely believe he loved her? No, he just hated the idea that he couldn't satisfy her. Plus there was the added insult of my paternity."

John gasped. "You mean, you were the child of the gardener?"

"No. But he thought I was. We did a test, when I was about four, and it turns out I was his all along. That didn't stop him disowning his son though. He never liked me; all he saw was another man's child. Even when I was proved to be his, he couldn't think of me as his own." John put his hand on his shoulder, which Sherlock shrugged off. "I'm not upset about it. I hated the man, we both did. He drove our mother to drink and that's what killed her."

"Didn't they divorce?"

"No. You know these aristocrats, they're afraid of scandal spoiling their good names," he spat. "He wouldn't let her. He trapped her in a loveless marriage so he could keep his reputation. When he died, he left all his possessions and wealth to Mycroft, his only child. Mycroft's felt uneasy about it ever since, but I don't mind. He sold it all, in any case, and kept the money instead. The memories were too painful, I suppose. Every now and then he forces money on me to keep me living in the condition to which I have become accustomed, out of his guilt." Sherlock laughed. "Sorry, I shouldn't keep going on. You're probably bored."

"No, I was interested. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine John. It was a long time ago." Sherlock's phone vibrated and he answered. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock, it's me," It was Lestrade's voice. "We need you up here now."

_3:30pm_

"You took your sweet time," Lestrade grumbled.

"John got us lost," said Sherlock. John muttered something incoherent about the map being wrong before sitting down in a chair. "What's the problem then?"  
"We can't find any clue as to who the target is. There's nothing about them that stands out."

Sherlock examined the list. A list of around 50 people wasn't much help to them. Most of these were protesters, though some were staff who kept the forest free of litter and worked in the information centre.

"So, do you think it'll be a protester?" John asked.

"I'm not sure. There's something wrong… something missing from this picture."

"Well the demonstators are very worried about the fate of the swans," said Lestrade. "Perhaps Moriarty had shares in this venture and wanted them out of the way?"

"Perhaps. We can't be certain, but it _seems_ logical. It'll probably be a prominent member in one of the many protest groups that are assembled outside. Does that narrow it down?"

Lestrade shifted the papers in his hands. "Well, that leaves six people. The organisers, the leaders, etc. Here." He passed the lists to him, having highlighted the people of importance.

Sherlock scanned the list. "Purity Adams?" he said with disbelief.

"Yeah, it's a hell of a name," Lestrade chuckled. "She was the red haired girl that spoke to us earlier- or rather, _at_ us. You think she's a target?"

"Potentially, yes. I think we need to meet this girl."

_4:00pm_

"What's this about?" Purity Adams scowled when she saw Lestrade and the others approach her. "We gave you our details, aren't you happy?"

Lestrade sighed. "We need to ask you a few questions."

Frowning, she passes the megaphone she was carrying to a man near to her. "Keep up the chant for me. Thanks, Grant." She reluctantly followed them to a quiet spot nearby, glaring like a recalcitrant teenager. "So?"

"Ms Adams, we're here as part of an official investigation into a potential crime."

"So why are you asking me anything? My record's clean."

"We know that. We think there is a threat to someone's life."

Purity looked shocked at this, but quickly regained her petulant composure. "I'm afraid I can't help you, I have no idea if anyone in our group has enemies."

"The scary thing is, Ms Adams, they don't need to have enemies. These are motiveless crimes. They just have to fit the killer's profile for his next victim, and one of them could be you."

"I don't know how I can help you!" she cried, shaking a little at the disturbing news. Sherlock felt his phone vibrate once more. "Sherlock Holmes."

"My my my!"

Sherlock groaned at Moriarty's familiar drawl. He nodded at Lestrade to let him know who was speaking. "What?"  
"Oh, I'm just observing Sherlock. You don't know who it is, do you?"

Sherlock felt a twinge of annoyance. "There's plenty of time."

"Yes, but are you as close as you think you are? You'll have to work fast if you want to find them."

"I can work perfectly well without your help, thank you."

Moriarty laughed. "Fine, fine. Just remember the clue I gave you. Seven swans a swimming!" He hung up.

_8__:00pm_

_4__ hours_… It could be worse. But it could be a hell of a lot better. Sherlock should have been able to work better than this, he should have been able to solve this quicker. But as far as he could tell, there was not enough data to form any solid conclusions. He knew it was a grave mistake to theorize before he had data. What had Moriarty meant?

He took a sip of his still watery tea. Mrs Doyle had bustled over to them and brought them food and drinks from the shop, free of charge to "such lovely people".

"Have you got anything, Sherlock?" asked John quietly.

"… What connects these people?" he thought aloud, more a question to himself than to those around him. "Their love of nature, their desire to save the environment."

"Seven swans a swimming…" Lestrade muttered. "Well, the swan connection is enough, surely? But which one in particular?"

Sherlock scowled unpleasantly at his drink. "Which one… Which one is special?"

Mrs Doyle picked up some rubbish behind him. "They all seem like six ordinary people to me. Nice enough, but nothing out of the ordinary."

Sherlock tensed in his seat. "Say that again."

"Er-" She looked at him, puzzled. "Nice enough, but nothing out of the ordinary."

"No, the bit before that!" He urged her.

"They all seem like six ordinary people to me."

"Yes!" Sherlock got up out of his seat. "You genius Mrs Doyle!"

"Care to share, Sherlock?" said Sally, looking irritated at his sudden realisation.

"Moriarty said _them_. Don't you get it?" He laughed. They continued to stare back at him blankly. "It doesn't _have_ to be one of them! It's all of them!"

Lestrade began to smile, then stopped. "Wait, but why six? Surely seven would fit with the song."

Sherlock bit his lip. "There must be another victim. Who, I have no idea."

"This is all very exciting," said Mrs Doyle. "Murders connected to a song… It's just like a crime show on TV!"

Sherlock sighed. "Unless we find the seventh victim, we can't win. Let me see the list again."

Lestrade passed him the list of names. "Who could the seventh be?"

"Swans… Swans…" Sherlock chanted, almost singing the words in order to get them into his head. "Connection to swans…"

His eyes fell upon Mrs Doyle. The only person not included on the list, because _she_ had made it. "Mrs Doyle…" he asked. "What's your first name?"

"Shawna, dear."

"Shawna…" He took out his phone. "Have you ever researched the etymology of your name, Mrs Doyle?"

"Er, no. Why?"

"Because, if I'm not mistaken, Shawna is a Gaelic name."

"Well yes, I knew that, but-"

"A Gaelic name that means 'swan'" He smiled at his phone when he saw that his suspicions were confirmed. "Mrs Doyle, you were the seventh victim."


	22. Intensify and Multiply

_9:00pm_

The six protesters and Mrs Doyle were being kept in the information centre where they could be kept an eye on, whilst Sherlock, John and the others relaxed in the café area.

"Well, we have three hours leisure time," said Lestrade happily. "What the hell do we do?"

"Get royally pissed?" Sally suggested helpfully.

"Let's not forget what happened last time we did that," said John wisely. To Sherlock's astonishment, Sally blushed. Lestrade simply looked bewildered for a few seconds, then laughed.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that this had somehow been too easy.

_10:00pm_

"John, can you get him out of that corner?" said Lestrade exasperatedly. Sherlock was huddled over at a table, examining the files that they had accumulated whilst investigating. "We're supposed to be celebrating whilst looking like we're working, not the other way around."

John walked over to Sherlock. "What's up with you? You're all down."

"Oh nothing. I'm just bored is all."

John let out a sigh of frustration "Sherlock, you solved the case. For once, let yourself relax."

Sherlock ignored him and turned back to the files. Gordon Feversham's business ventures were varied and numerous. He hadn't checked these lists himself, he'd gotten Lestrade to do it for him. He scanned them again, then stumbled backwards from his seat.

The others looked at him. "What's wrong Sherlock?" said John.

A creeping sensation of horror seemed to fill him as he stared at the paper in terror. "This is wrong. It's not Mrs Doyle. It's someone else."

"What? Sherlock, it can't be-"

"We need to get to Feversham's, _now_."

_11:55pm_

Sherlock willed the car to reach their destination quickly. At this rate, they would never make it.

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?" Lestrade asked in irritation. "I thought we'd-"

"We were wrong!" He yelled, anger overwhelming him. "You don't understand! Gordon Feversham owns a large number of Hans Christian Andersen manuscripts."

"Yes, but they weren't specified-"

"He owns 'The Wild Swans'! It's a story by Andersen, he owns it and Frasier loves those stories. He's going to kill him."

_11:59pm_

The car pulled up at the house and Sherlock leaped out, racing to the entrance and hammering on the door. A bewildered Gordon Feversham opened the door.

"I thought you said we were done with all this."

Sherlock paid no attention to him and began to run up the stairs, John and Lestrade following close behind. He could feel his heartbeat in his head, could feel himself beginning to sweat due to exhaustion and fear. He slammed into the door of Frasier's bedroom, knocking it open and falling to the floor.

He found himself at Frasier's feet. He was lying on the carpet. His eyes were closed, and he would have looked like he was sleeping if he wasn't covered in blood. The horribly red gash across his throat was nothing to the wound to his arm, which was barely recognisable as a limb anymore.

Sherlock heard Lestrade retch behind him, and John murmur "Oh God no." Sherlock checked for a pulse, but found none. He looked at his watch. _12:01am. _They were just too late.

_December 11th_

_12:30am_

Sherlock examined the room, trying to find some clue of the identity of the attacker. He could find nothing.

"Sherlock," said John. "I think you ought to see this."

Sherlock turned to find him holding three boxes. They were wrapped in dark purple paper, with a black ribbon, just like the original gift from Moriarty had been. "One's addressed to you," said John. "There's one for me, and one for Lestrade."

Tentatively, Lestrade took the box from him, and undid the ribbon. "Christ!" He let the box drop to the floor. Inside was a dead bird. "The sick bastard."

"Look underneath it." Sherlock lifted the bird and saw a small book there. On the cover, it said 'The Nightingale, by Hans Christian Andersen'.

"Why the Nightingale?" Lestrade asked.

John began to open his present. Inside his was another book, and a small tin soldier. The soldier had one leg. John picked up the book. "'The Steadfast Tin Soldier, by Hans Christian Andersen'"

"I don't like where this is going." Sherlock picked up his box, and unwrapped it. In his was a small silver mirror, delicately carved and with his initials engraved on the back. There was also a book- 'The Snow Queen, by Hans Christian Andersen'.

"Why is he doing this?" said Lestrade, rage clearly audible in his voice.

"I think we'll find out soon enough.

_1:00am_

Sherlock sat with his head in his hands, fingers clenched around curls of his dark hair. He didn't want to look at the family, to look at John or Lestrade or Sally and know that he had failed them. He had lost.

"He killed a child…" Lestrade voice cracked with the effort of speaking. "A _child_." Sherlock looked up and saw that he was shaking, and he had never seen such undeniable rage in his eyes before. He wasn't sure what to say.

His phone rang. The four of them stared at the phone, which was lying on the table. They had been waiting for the call.

Sherlock put it on speaker phone. "Yes?"  
What they heard first was a laugh. "Hello Sherlock. How are you?"

"You know perfectly well how I am."

"Humiliated? Angry? I would be. This was an _easy_ one, if you can't handle it then maybe you shouldn't be playing."

"Why?" His words were short and said with a brutality that Moriarty seemed to register.

"It fits deliciously, doesn't it? Those six eco warriors trying to protect the swans? It was brilliant- but I needed one more. The seventh. And then I remembered the child…" another tinny laugh rung harshly from the mobile. "With his love of those stories… I have spies everywhere, Sherlock, I can find out whatever I need to. Do you really think that babysitter had the flu? I paid her, to give you more of a chance, and you still failed."

"Why not Mrs Doyle? That would have fit as well. Why a child?"

"To let you know what I'm capable of. I gave you a tiny glimpse of my power with our previous game, Sherlock. This is what I can do. I can destroy something pure. Something innocent. That boy was the final swan."

"In the story," Sherlock muttered. "In 'The Wild Swans'. The brothers of the princess are turned into swans, and she has to weave coats made of nettles to free them."

"And the youngest brother gets an unfinished coat, and keeps one of his arms as a wing. You see? That's why I had my guy… tamper, with the body a bit."

Sherlock's mind flashed back to the mutilated arm of the boy he had played with just one day previously. "This is sick."

"Perhaps. Have you heard of the black swan theory, Sherlock?"

"What?"  
"The theory that a tiny, improbable and surprising event has a major impact on the world, but is later rationalized by hindsight. Named after the discovery of the first black swan in the eighteenth century. No one believed that they existed before then, and it terrified people. You see, before I knew about you, I believed that I had no equal, and no-one would dare try to stop me. Discovering your existence was a shock- but now I think about it, it was always bound to happen. We're destined to do this forever. You are my black swan."

"Will you please tell us why the fuck you've done this?" Lestrade spat.

Moriarty sounded pleased. "Oh, Gregory, you're here! You were so quiet, I didn't even notice. Gregory, Gregory, Gregory… You are special, you know that?"

"What the hell are you talking about? What was with the gifts, the bird, what are you planning?"

Moriarty giggled. "I'm getting to that. Be patient. I'll start with you then, if you're so desperate to know. Have you read 'The Nightingale', Lestrade?"

"No."

"Well, then I'll tell you. In the story, the emperor of China orders that a nightingale is brought to him, because its song was the most beautiful thing in the entire world."

"What are you getting at?" said Lestrade angrily.

"_You_ are the nightingale, Gregory. You are talented, oh so talented- you are the best at what you do. But just like in the story, you are upstaged. The emperor is brought a mechanical bird. Covered in jewels and made of gold. It sings just as well as the real nightingale, but it never tires and looks so much better. Don't you understand? You are second best. They bring in someone else, as equally as talented but flashier, showier. Sherlock is a younger, more impressive version of you."

Lestrade said nothing at this point. He was staring flatly at the wall, fists clenched.

"You are second rate." Moriarty continued. "Second best. Never anyone's first choice. Who would have you when they could have someone like Sherlock Holmes?" His sing song voice was tauntingly cruel as Moriarty mocked him. "Whatever way you look at it, you are inferior to him."

"Stop it," said John. "Just stop it."

"Ah, Johnny boy!" Moriarty chuckled. "So glad you're finally joining in. Do you understand your little gift?"

"It's a soldier. With one leg. A reference to my limp?"

"Partially. This story applies almost too well to you. Poor, defective little John. You're so broken and battered. Just one big scar now. The Steadfast Tin Soldier was broken too- he only had one leg. He wasn't fit for his purpose, like you, he was rejected by the other soldiers. Did you think they cared about your PTSD? They thought you were weak. You came home from the war as _nothing_."

The silence in the room was deafening.

"But you've always been an outsider, haven't you? Always on the edge of things. Inadequate. Incomplete. You're not enough for the army, and you're not enough for Sherlock. The soldier falls in love with a ballerina, and he thinks she has one leg. Did you think Sherlock was the same as you? Did you think because you're both fragmented, both deficient and emotionally substandard, that you could be friends?"

Sherlock tried to express with his eyes that John _was_ his friend, but John was avoiding looking at him.

"Sherlock is so much more than you. And yet you stay so loyal, do everything for him, do anything to get back to him, just like the little soldier. But when you do, what is your reward? You burn with him. At the end of the story, the soldier is thrown into the fire, and he melts into a little heart. The ballerina follows him. They burn together, just like you two will, and I will watch you burn."

"I thought you and Sherlock were destined to do this forever," said John, a little croakily.

"Oh, we are. When I say that he'll burn, he won't die. You will die- and if you burn, he burns inside."

The last words had such startling poignancy that Sherlock had to speak. "So what about me, Moriarty? What little plan have you cooked up for me, hmm?"

He could hear the smile in Moriarty's voice. "Sherlock, don't be mad. My beautiful black swan. You are beautiful, do you know that? Everyone can see it, even your idiot of a flatmate. You are so beautiful that you dim everything around you, everything in your periphery is somehow worse for your presence. You make them all look like scum- and that's what you are. You are the magic mirror from the Snow Queen. The mirror created by the devil that makes everything good and wonderful shrivel up to almost nothing. You help the darkness, it intensifies and multiplies around you. You shatter and splinter into thousands of pieces that catch in people's eyes and hearts, so all they can see and love is you. That's what you do to people, you infect them till their hearts turn to ice and all they want in the universe is to be with you, and everything else seems wrong to them. I told you that you had a heart, Sherlock. It's just frozen. With me, I don't have a heart- and that's fine. That's acceptable. I'm a psychopath, after all, it's practically a requirement. With you, your heart is there, it's just… twisted. Wrong. You are an addiction Sherlock, and the only way people can break free is by leaving you. You're always so alone, except for me. With the risk of sounding like a cliché," Moriarty laughed. "'I just don't know how to quit you'."

"You think this is funny?" Sherlock said, bile stinging his throat.

"Well, yes, actually. You're looking for someone to love Sherlock, but you don't know how. And even if you could, who is capable of loving you, apart from me? Johnny boy will leave you, just like the others did. I am your past, your present and your future, whatever way you look at it. So stop wasting your time on people you can never have," Sherlock's stomach dropped at these words, "and come to me. I am eternal." Moriarty began to laugh, until he was almost hysterical. "Do you know what happens, Sherlock, when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?"

"No."

"You will by the end."

**That was the plot detail I warned you about, the reason for upgrading the story to an M. You have to be careful when you talk about children dying, it's a touchy issue and some people are offended. Like I said, it was a safety measure. Thank you for reading.**


	23. Everything in Its Right Place

**TheScienceODeduction Sorry, the review seemed to be unsigned, so I couldn't think of any other way to reply to you than through the story itself! I hope you did well in your exam, I've probably done awfully XD I'd love to read your stories, if only I could find them! Send me a link sometime. Yeah, I'm in Year 10 too. It sucks, doesn't it? **_**So**_** much work to do. I really wanted to go to Speedy's! I went and found North Gower Street last weekend but it was closed! I was gutted. Thank you for the lovely review.**

**Hey there reader! How's it hangling? (I re-watched Peep Show- so sue me ;D) Again, this has taken me a stupid amount of time to get out, and that sucks *smacks self* So, what's happened whilst we've been away? I saw Frankenstein. I feel indecently happy about perving on Benedict Cumberbatch, but it can't be helped XD I also failed my Maths exam, had a minor mental breakdown when I had to redo my History coursework for the third time, and somehow began an anti-Conservative campaign amongst my friends, God knows how.**

**I'd also like to thank you lovely folk for giving me over 200 reviews! WOW!**

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**Dedicated to OryonUK, as she was the 200****th**** reviewer! She also happened to be the 100****th**** reviewer… She clearly has powers. BURN THE WITCH. Actually, don't, I rely on the reviews to keep me happy XD Enjoy!**

_**Part the First:**_

_Listen now! We're going to begin our story. When we come to the end of it we shall know more than we do now._

_There was once a wicked imp, a demon, one of the very worst- he was the devil himself. One day, there he was, laughing his head off. Why? Because he had made a magic mirror with a special power: everything good and beautiful that was reflected in it shrivelled up almost to nothing, but everything evil and ugly seemed even larger, and more hideous than it was. In this glass, the loveliest landscapes looked just like boiled spinach, and even the nicest people appeared quite horrible, or seemed to be standing on their heads, or to have no trunks to their bodies. As for their faces, they were so twisted and changed that no one could have recognised them; and, if anything holy and serious passed through someone's mind, a hideous sneering grin was shown in the glass._

Sherlock snapped the book shut. Rain spattered the window in a gentle but irregular rhythm, the sky still dark before the late winter dawn. John was asleep, his head resting against the car window. He was illuminated by the passing motorway lamps, the light flickering over his features and highlighting the lines of his face. Sherlock had not previously noticed the slight imperfections in John's face, but he had never been able to analyse and catalogue him for this long before.

He had lost. Moriarty had been allowed to kill an eight year old child, for the love of the game. The worst part of it was the reason why he had failed. Sherlock could not help but think that perhaps, if John had not been around, he would not have been distracted. He wouldn't have let his mind wander; he would have focused on the case and won.

He glanced back over at the man sat beside him. He never should have let him in the first place. Now, he couldn't go back.

_December 11th_

_11:30am_

"Ok," said Lestrade, clapping his hands together and addressing the team as a whole. "I realise that the death of Frasier Feversham has been a blow to the investigation, but we have to move forward." His tone was- well, not upbeat, but as close to upbeat as it was possible to be after you've just seen the mutilated child. It was Lestrade's eyes that betrayed him, their blankness revealing his lack of sleep and despondency. "Keep looking for links. Off you go."

The crowd dispersed, leaving Sherlock and John standing awkwardly by the door to the office. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but Sherlock could have sworn that he'd heard whispers about him. He'd caught people staring at him with something hard to unravel in their eyes. Something like mistrust.

"Guys," said Lestrade. "Come in."

They sat down in his office, Lestrade shutting the door quietly behind him. He sat behind his desk, sighing. "It wasn't a success."

"I know," said Sherlock. "We were so close."

"The thing with the presents," said John. "Why? Why did he do it?"

Sherlock took the book out of his pocket. "More theatrics? I think it's just another way of getting at us. He's trying to make us feel weak."

"And succeeding," said John, barely audibly. "He's making us look like fools."

"We need to think about his next victim," said Lestrade firmly. "How are we supposed to figure it out? I mean, how many connections can a primary school child have anyway?"

"They'll be one. Somewhere." Sherlock got out of his chair. "So what do we have to go on? The next line of the song is 'Six Geese A-Laying'. Six Geese." He began to pace the room. "A goose."

"A goose farmer, perhaps?" suggested Lestrade.

"Don't be obvious. He's hardly going to make it that easy." Lestrade frowned.

"Perhaps the goose is symbolic of something?" said John.

"Perhaps. We can't be certain until we think of a possible link to Frasier Feversham."

Lestrade picked up a cup of coffee and took a deep drink from it. "Well, I don't see how he knew many people in the first place. You two knew him better than I did, what was he like?"

John paused. "He was nice. Friendly. He didn't have too many friends, from the sound of it. His mother barely let him out of the house, he couldn't have had the time."

"Well, what were his interests?"

"He liked stories," Sherlock said without emotion. "His mother used to tell him them." Sherlock pressed his hands together in a praying position under his nose. "Perhaps the reference is in a story that she read to him?"

"Brilliant Sherlock!" John smiled, but the warmth was marred by his grief. Sherlock knew that he had cared for Frasier, but the extent of John's emotions was unknown to him. As he was constantly reminded, he wasn't good with feelings.

"I'll need the books from his room. In fact, send me as much as you can from there."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, don't you think we should wait for a while?"

Sherlock blinked. "What? Why?"

"His parents will be grieving. We shouldn't intrude."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There's no time for that! Don't you understand? We need to find the links as quickly as we can- did you learn nothing from the last case?"

Lestrade bit his lip. "Fine. I'll give them to the team when they arrive."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, give them to John and I. Your lot will probably miss something."

"Maybe you and John have done a bit too much, Sherlock." The words were neither shouted nor muttered, but his tone was biting. "For the first time, Sherlock detected an edge to Lestrade that was directed at him. They exchanged a long and deliberate look.

John coughed. "We'll see what we can do Greg. Thanks."

Sherlock broke his gaze, and walked out of the room without another word to the detective inspector.

_2:30pm_

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Hello, are you in there?"

Sherlock snapped out of his stupor. He had been lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and trying to think. "What?"

"I said, help me with these Christmas cards." John passed him a list of people.

Sherlock moaned. "Christmas cards? I hardly think that this is worthy of my time right now."

John smirked. "Well, there's nothing you can do until you get the books, and that will take time. So come and help."

Sherlock glared at him, then swung his legs off the sofa so John could sit down. He scanned the list. "John?"  
"Yes?"

"Are we sending _joint_ Christmas cards?"

"Well, I figured you don't have too many people to send them to, so I thought you might want to be included in mine."

Sherlock laughed. "And you wonder why people think we're a couple?"

John shot him a playful scowl, and shoved a Christmas card at him. "Start."

It was steady work, and surprisingly fun. Sherlock wrote the same carbon copied message in all of them- '_To [INSERT NAME HERE], Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! From John and Sherlock_'.

He groaned once he got to a certain part of the list. "Mycroft?"

"Yes," John grinned. "He's your brother."

"But I don't like him!" He protested. "He's irritating!"

"Nevertheless."

Sherlock moaned. "Fine. But I'm not buying him a present."

"Yes you are. Otherwise it'll look odd that I've bought him one."

Sherlock blinked. "You've bought him a present?"

"Yes!" said John defensively. "I like to buy gifts. It's a nice thing to do."

"What did you get him?"

"A cashmere jumper. Do you think he'll like it?" he asked nervously.

Sherlock laughed. "I'm sure he will. He knows that you love jumpers, believe me. Besides, he'll probably have gotten too fat for it after Christmas in any case. He eats like a pig at Christmas."

John giggled guiltily. "Don't be a bitch, Sherlock. I really need to go shopping actually, I haven't got half the stuff I need yet."

"God, and now I actually have a _friend_, I suppose I'll have to buy him a present." Sherlock shot a sideways glance at John, faking an exasperated expression which made John laugh.

"And your brother, remember? Think about Lestrade as well. Plus Mrs Hudson- I can't believe you forgot about her! You'll have to come with me."

"Fine. But Mycroft's getting something crappy that he'll never use. A diet cookbook, perhaps?"

John sniggered. They turned back to the cards.

_4:30pm_

The books had been taken to 221B by an unnamed police officer who hadn't stopped to give it to them. The box was brought up by Mrs Hudson.

"This all looks very odd Sherlock," she said. "All these fairy tales. Interesting case dear?"

"You could say that." He thanked her and she bustled off downstairs. John had raised an interesting point- what was he going to get her? What was he going to get _John_? He'd never bought a Christmas present in his life before. What would he like?

"You've got the books?" asked John.

"Yeah. And some other stuff- toys and crayons." He put the box down. "We'd better get to work."

Hours passed. Each read the books, trying to find some sort of connection. What could help them?

Sherlock picked up one of the final books in the pile. Another Hans Christian Andersen book. He flicked it open, discarded a bookmark that had been left there, and began to read.

_Everything in Its Right Place._

_It__ is more than a hundred years ago! At the border of the wood, near a large lake, stood the old mansion: deep ditches surrounded it on every side, in which reeds and bulrushes grew. Close by the drawbridge, near the gate, there was an old willow tree, which bent over the reeds. From the narrow pass came the sound of bugles and the trampling of horses' feet; therefore a little girl who was watching the geese hastened to_-

Sherlock stopped, staring at the blank little word on the page. _Geese._ "John."

"What?"

"I think I've found it."

They read the rest of the tale together.

"So a goose-girl is pushed into a ditch by a snobby Baron, and she hangs onto a willow tree. The branch breaks, but she's rescued by a peddler, who sticks the branch into the ground and tells her that she should make a flute," said John. "The branch grows into a tree, and eventually the Baron becomes so poor that the peddler buys the mansion from him. He married the goose-girl. In a hundred years, their descendants looked down on their great grandparents lowly beginnings. The son of the village pastor and the eldest daughter of the family fall in love, and he makes a flute from a branch of the tree to give to the son of the Baron. But only the son of the pastor can play it, and when he does, all the people are moved around to where they deserve to be. The son of the pastor and the daughter deserve to be of high status, so they are. The baron becomes a shepherd. Everything in its right place." John scratched his head. "But why? I mean, the geese is hardly mentioned in the story."

Sherlock frowned. "I have no idea. A red herring perhaps? To distract us?"

John glanced at the cover of the book again. "Everything in its right place… Isn't that a Radiohead song?"

Sherlock frowned. "How the hell would I know?"

John grimaced. "Of course, you wouldn't know. I'm pretty sure it is you know." He walked quickly upstairs, returning with a CD in his hand. "It is!" he said, pleased.

"You're not putting it on are you?" Sherlock sighed. "Dull."

John ignored him, pressing play on the CD player he had brought down with him.

The electronic sound drifted out of the speakers, oddly haunting and abstract.

_Kid A, Kid A, Kid A, Kid A, Everything, everything, everything, everything, in its right place, in its right place, in its right place, right place, yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon, yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon, yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon, yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon, everything, everything, everything, in its right place, in its right place, right place, there are two colours in my head, there are two colours in my head, what is that you tried to say? What was that you tried to say? Tried to say, tried to say, tried to say, tried to say, everything in its right place__._

The song ended.

"Did you like it?" asked John.

"It was… ok," Sherlock said reluctantly. "Not great but not terrible."

"That's high praise coming from you," John said pointedly.

Sherlock smirked. "Perhaps. Well, we've still got nowhere. This could take a while."

John glanced at his watch. "Shit, is it six already?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, I'm going out with Sarah later." Sherlock groaned inwardly. He'd forgotten about their little date. "We're going to see a film at 7:30, and then we're getting something to eat afterwards."

"Oh. Sounds… nice."

"I said I'd meet her at 7:15, and it'll take me 45 minutes to get over there with the traffic. Shit." He gave Sherlock a pained look. "I can cancel if you want."

It took all the effort Sherlock had to stop himself from taking the offer. "No. I'll be fine. Go out with Sarah." These words came out sharper than he had intended them to, but John didn't seem to notice.

"Thanks mate. I'd better get ready, she won't be happy if I'm late!" He rushed upstairs.

_6:30pm_

Sherlock had sat in silence in the flat, waiting for John to leave before allowing himself to rant about Sarah at the top of his voice. He knew he ought to be concentrating on the case, but… John could be awfully distracting. He walked downstairs, looking incredible considering he was only wearing a blue shirt and jeans.

"Do I look alright?" he asked nervously.

"Yes. You look great." Sherlock choked out. He had been very close to telling John he looked terrible and forcing him to change, just to delay him.

"I'll see you later, yeah? Wish me luck!" He bounded out of the flat, a small spring in his step.

Sherlock sighed, and put his head in his hands. He tried not to think about what John and Sarah were doing at that moment in time, and picked up his copy of 'The Snow Queen'.

_The mirror shook so violently with its weird reflections that it sprang out of their hands and went crashing down to earth, where it burst into hundreds of millions, billions, trillions of tiny pieces. And that made matters even worse than before, for some of these pieces were hardly as big as a grain of sand. These flew here and there, all through the wide world; whoever got a speck in his eye saw everything good as bad or twisted- for every little splinter had the same power as the whole glass had. Some people even caught a splinter in their hearts, and that was horrible, for then their hearts became just like lumps of ice._

Is that what he did to people?

Sherlock's phone vibrated suddenly, making him jump. He answered. "Hello?"

"Having fun, darling?" Moriarty's musical tone chimed from the phone.

"I'm not in the mood Moriarty, so make it quick."

"I'm just seeing how you're doing. One must monitor these things. So where are you now?"

"Now why would I tell you that?"

"Because you know that I won't change my plan. I _want_ you to solve this."

Sherlock realized that he had a point. "I've looked through Frasier's books. Found 'Everything in its right place'."

Morairty laughed. "Ah. So has your little soldier linked it to his favorite band yet?"

Sherlock frowned. "How did you-"

"You'd be amazed what you can learn from _Facebook_, Sherlock. Isn't he precious?" His voice had a vicious edge to it that Sherlock didn't like at all. "You finally gave in and made a connection with another human being. I can't say I'm surprised- I just thought you'd have better taste. A soldier and a doctor? Really Sherlock, how predictable. Your life is rather like some trashy Mills and Boon romance novel- the detective and his lover."

"John is not my lover."

"Well, you've got a funny way of showing it then. John, John, John. Everything links back to _John_. Have you heard the song?"

"He played it for me."

Moriarty giggled. "Ah, good. I left that in just for him, but it does fit with you and the case rather well."

Sherlock glared at the man he couldn't see. "How, exactly?"

"Well, that song's all about contrasts. People wake up everyday in a world so horribly complicated and dark, but they long for an easy answer. Something concrete, something black and white. Something bigger than themselves. That's why they created religions, so people could believe." Moriarty chuckled. "You see them, don't you? Little men with little lives. Clinging to their gods, like there's some semblance of order in the Universe. You'll learn. They're nothing. Their beliefs are nothing. We are so much bigger than them. Never to be overcome, never to be destroyed. Eternal."

"You talk like we're gods."

"Maybe we are? The normal people, they yearn for simplicity. We don't want that. We revel in the complicated. But then we differ. I am never satisfied with what I have. I am ambitious. You, however, long for contentment. So what does that make you? A god, or a human? You are the point where heaven and hell collide, where black meets white, where ice meet fire. You are light and dark in their purest forms."

"Why are you doing this? Why are you _analyzing_ me?"

"Because you hate anything you don't understand. And you don't understand _yourself_."

**P.S- You probably all already know, but did you hear about Olivia and Benedict? :O **


	24. You

**Hello you. AHAHAHA, YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE? BECAUSE THE CHAPTER'S CALLED 'YOU'! I'M SO FUNNY! I MADE A PUN!**

**Ahem. Yes. **

**I'm on a self-induced sugar high, because A) It's been a horrific day, and B) This is officially the last day I can put off revising for. My Mock Exam week-but-not-quite-a-week-actually-a-week-and-a-day-week starts next Friday, and I'm terrified. I've got English, R.E, Citizenship, Maths, History, Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Music and French to do, plus coursework catch up days. FUN. **

**I've updated 2 chapters as once, as way of an apology for my absence from updating over the coming weeks. I'd much rather be here, with you, honest. Also, this chapter feels like more of a bridge than anything, and doesn't seem to work as well as I'd liked. Some Radiohead references for you- some subtle, some really not.**

_11:00pm_

John was not home. This worried Sherlock immensely. He was either out with Sarah and it was going well, or it hadn't gone well and was now wondering around London on his own in an effort to calm himself down.

So Moriarty considered himself a god? Sherlock laughed. If anyone was not a god, it would be Moriarty. The man was crueler than Sherlock considered even himself to be. He went into the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea. He wasn't staying up till John came home. No. That would be stupid. No, he was staying up because it was his apartment to and he could stay in it as long as he wanted. Yes. That was why.

Sherlock lay down on the sofa, drinking his tea. His eyes fell on the box of Frasier's possessions. They were heartbreakingly small.

Sherlock began to do what he always did when his emotions threatened to overwhelm him, which was to record and catalogue things.

He found:

12 books, including eight fairytale anthologies, two Roald Dahl books, a Doctor Who novel and a book on planes.

A toy robot.

A teddy bear (who, despite himself, Sherlock knew was called Rupert).

His collection of planes.

A notebook recording his model planes.

The box of Play-Dough they had played with.

Sherlock's throat stung painfully, and he scolded himself for this embarrassing show of sentiment. It was only then that he noticed the bookmark he had discarded earlier. It showed some soldiers, and in the bottom, a little 'Help for Heroes' logo was written.

Sherlock stared at the bookmark. It had been in the very book with the connection to the case. On the page where the story had started. How could he have been so blind?

He grabbed his phone and began to google frantically. He could find a connection, he must.

_Geese are one of the mascots of the U.S Marines, due to their steady and loyal temperament. Their motto _Semper Fedelis_, meaning 'Always Faithful', perfectly sums up the bird_.

Sherlock grinned. This was it. This was the connection. This time, he would not fail. He would win. He would beat Moriarty. He would-

Sleep. At that moment, all of his fatigue, all of his exhaustion seemed to catch up with him in one flurry of movement, turning his limbs to mush beneath him. He fell back onto the sofa, asleep before he hit it.

_9:00am_

Sherlock awoke the next morning with his face stuck to the sofa. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but he knew that he hadn't been in bed all night. He peeled himself off and staggered into the kitchen, grasping for a mug for his tea-

Only to find Sarah in there, making herself some breakfast. In the blue shirt John had been wearing last night. And nothing else.

Sarah gasped when she saw him, dropping the bowl of cornflakes she had in her hands. Hurriedly, he rushed to pick up the pieces, avoiding catching her eye.

"Excuse me," he muttered, placing the pieces in the bin and grabbing the kettle, his jaw clenched.

"I'm sorry, I'll just-" She left mid sentence, walking as quickly as was polite upstairs to John's bedroom. Sherlock was overcome in an urge to throw something, but managed to suppress this by putting vehement passion into placing the kettle back on the kitchen side. Of course they'd slept together. They were two adults; Sherlock could hardly stop them, could he? Glaring at nothing in particular, he gripped the mug tightly, knuckles whitening from the pressure.

There was a sleepy yawn from behind him. "Hey Sherlock," said John, smiling wearily at him.

"Hi," he said, his voice brittle.

"Sorry about that, we thought you were asleep."

"Not a problem."

John began to search the fridge. "Thanks for your help, by the way. It really- Well, it was…" John gave him a grin that made Sherlock want to hurt someone. It felt like a betrayal. Of course it wasn't, John was hardly _his_ to claim, but it didn't mean that this didn't sting.

"Glad to be of use."

"Get any further with the case?"

This made Sherlock feel a little safer. An easy topic. Better. "I believe the next victim could be a U.S marine."

"Oh. How?"

"The goose is a mascot of the marines, due to their faithful nature. There was a 'Help for Heroes' logo on a bookmark that was placed in the story."

"But how can you tell which one it's going to be?"

"That's what I need to find out. Coming?"

Sarah walked into the kitchen, fully dressed this time and applying make up as she walked. She blushed a little at the sight of Sherlock. "Er, hi." She turned to John. "Thanks for last night."

Sherlock had expected some display of affection towards Sarah from John at this point, and found himself suddenly engrossed in the kitchen cabinets at this point in his revulsion, but none came. "No problem," came John's reply, a warm tone but one that Sherlock knew too well as slightly uncomfortable to be fully normal. His presence must have been distracting him.

Sarah gave Sherlock a weak smile and kissed John briefly on the cheek. John smiled back and she left.

"You're sure you'd not rather be out with Sarah today?"

"She's working. Besides, I'm interested in the case. Scotland Yard?"

"I thought you'd never ask. But, er," Sherlock glanced at John's still pyjama covered body tentatively. "You'd better change."

John raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me you've never gone to see Lestrade in your pyjamas before?"

Sherlock chuckled. "You _really _don't want to know John."

_10:30am_

"So you're telling me we have to find a Marine." Lestrade tented his fingers, watching Sherlock intently.

"Yes."  
"A U.S Marine."

"Yes."

"That narrows it down considerably. Now we only have to check 180,000 fucking people."

"You don't do sarcasm nearly as well as I do Lestrade, don't try," Sherlock said dryly.

"Forgive me for not being the most optimistic," he glared at Sherlock darkly. "But it's 10:30am and we still have no fucking leads."

Sherlock began to pace. "Well, we just have to think logically. What do we already know?"

"The target is a Marine," said John. "And this is related to geese somehow."

"What do we know about geese?"

"Er, they're animals," said Lestrade. "They're birds, they migrate-"

"They migrate," Sherlock interrupted. "That could work. John, you'll know more about the military than us, what do you think?"

John paused. "Well, they migrate to southern countries in the winter, don't they? It's winter now, perhaps the victim served in a southern country for a while?"

"Very good."

"That's all well and good," said Lestrade, a sour look on his face. "But it's hardly going to help us in the long run. There are still thousands of people who could have served in southern countries, we still have no idea!"

Sherlock scowled. "I find your intense negativity immensely discouraging."

"I'm sorry if I'm not overly optimistic at this point," he spat.

Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Are you alright? You seem a bit tense."

Lestrade sighed. "I guess it's just the workload. I've not seen my kids in weeks. I want to get this case over quickly so I can leave and get home to my kids. It's Daniel's birthday today."

John began to make polite conversation with Lestrade about his children. Sherlock said nothing, simply allowing his mind to fill with ideas and theories.

_11:00am_

Sherlock spread out a map on the desk. "Ok John, you're going to learn something. The three step rule- observe, deduce, eliminate. From observing the patterns of goose migration, we know that geese migrate to southern, warmer countries for the winter. We can thus deduce that our Marine served in a southern country. Now, where have US marines served in the last, say, sixty years?" He smoothed the map, grabbing a box of push pins. "Korea. Vietnam. Iraq. Somalia. Serbia. Afghanistan," he pushed a pin through the paper into the wood of the desk for each. "That narrows it down, but we can hardly guess from that number."

"So?"

"We eliminate the unlikely. I don't personally believe that he'll attack anyone who's still serving out there- it's too dangerous and we don't have enough time to stop it."

"But that still leaves thousands of people."

Sherlock stared hard at the map. "Well, if we think about the kind of mind set that Moriarty has, we can assume that he'll want to provoke us. He'll want a raw wound, something that evokes a reaction from us. A modern war is more likely, but we can't rule out Korea or Vietnam."

"Do you think-" John stopped.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's not important."

Sherlock felt he should probe him further, but couldn't think of what to say. "Can you get Lestrade and get him to show you any US Marines living in the London area?"

"Sure."

Once he had left, Sherlock began to scour the internet. Why a Marine? Why pick one of them, out of everything else that could have fit. Moriarty had a twisted mind, he knew that, but what frightened him was how much he could identify with him.

His phone vibrated. "Hello?"

There was silence for a few moments, before an eery, electronic sound filled his ears.

_You are the sun and moon and stars, are you, and I could never run away from you, you try at working out chaotic things, and why should I believe myself, not you?_

Sherlock was filled with a horrible sense of foreboding. "Moriarty?" The song continued.

_It's like the world is going to end so soon, and why should I believe myself?_

"This isn't funny!"

_You, me, and everything caught in the fire, I can see me drowning, caught in the fire._

It ended, and Sherlock heard Moriarty starting to laugh. "You know what? I think I'm getting into Radiohead. Will you thank John for me, Sherlock?"

"John doesn't know you called me."

"Don't you trust him?"

"Of course I trust him."

"Then does he trust you?"

"I- Yes. Yes, I think he does."

Moriarty's horrible, irritating chuckle made him clench the edge of the desk in his frustration. "You don't sound too sure. Quite rightly, I'm afraid. He's going to leave you. That's what that song's called, _You_. It's very nice, isn't it?"

"I suppose."

"I do understand the attraction, honestly. He's a very… tempting man. He's just dull. Bland. Uninteresting. I don't see why you want _more_ than to just screw his little soldier brains out."

Sherlock's voice became low and dangerous. "Don't talk about him like he's nothing."

"He _is_ nothing, yet you're obsessed with him. He's your world, and if he leaves you your world will end."

"You seriously think I'd be so sentimental?"

"I _know_ you'd be so sentimental, Sherlock. And you know why I hate him? Because he's going to burn you before I get the chance. You're caught in his fire."

"Why are _you_ so obsessed with John? You always talk about him to me."

"And I talk about you to him, what's the problem?"

"You- W-What?" Sherlock stuttered, shocked at his words.

"Oh, didn't he tell you?" said Moriarty, clearly delighted. "He doesn't tell you about our little chats? We talk about you. We talk about _everything_. Now you have to ask yourself, why didn't he tell you? Did he not want to worry you, or was it that he doesn't believe you can help him?"

"You're pathetic," Sherlock spat.

"Tut tut, Sherlock, petty insults won't hurt me. It just gives me more evidence of your love."

"I don't _love_ John!" he cried. "I don't love him, he's a friend and nothing more."

"Sherlock, you shouldn't reject your emotions, however twisted they may be. You know what my father always told me? _'__And though I have the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains and have not love, I am nothing'_."

"What?"

"Corinthians. Of course, it's absolute bull shit, but it certainly has _resonance_. Goodbye Sherlock. Remember what I've told you."

_12:30pm_

Sherlock walked back into the office, clutching a coffee. Lestrade and John were crouched around a computer, scrolling down a long list of names.

"Sherlock, there are still at least one hundred," said Lestrade. "How are we supposed to know?"

"This is hopeless," said John, holding his head in his hands. "We'll never know, Sherlock."

Sherlock scanned the list. _And though I have the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains and have not love, I am nothing_. So strange to have his feelings summed up by a man he detested. And for the quote to be from the Bible? That was more shocking. He had never considered himself a religious man, but he had a feeling that something was up there. Passing judgment. He wasn't arrogant enough to assume that whatever it was would be on his side, or that he could explain it in enough words. Moriarty had admitted he didn't believe in any higher deity, but continually referred to religious teachings. Did he admire the power that religion had over people? Or was he hinting at something?

"John," said Sherlock abruptly. "Move over for a second." Sherlock sat at the computer. "I might be wrong, but- how many of these Marines are religious?"

"Er, I don't know," said Lestrade. "I suppose we can find out by seeing what box they ticked on their application form."

Sherlock narrowed the search fields and grinned. "That's down to a good 50. Most of these people said they were atheists."

"Wow, and I thought all Americans were super religious?"

"Now we just have to check these individually. _Jonathon Atkinson, James Allen, Martin Brown, Brian Chapman, Dexter Clarke, Perry Davies, Adam Doherty, Edward_-"

There was a crash behind him. Sherlock turned around. John had dropped his mug, the contents lying in a pool on the floor. He had a look of unconceivable horror in his eyes.

"John?" Lestrade asked carefully. "What's wrong?"

"Adam Doherty. I know that man. He saved my life."


	25. How to Disappear Completely

**ANGSTY CHAPTER WARNING. Well, angst at the very basic level that I can do angst, but angst nonetheless. ****You can also play a game whilst reading- try and find as many subtly *cough* placed Radiohead references as you can. Ready? On your marks, get set… GO! **

_John Watson met Adam Doherty whilst serving in Afghanistan. And, no, before you ask, they weren't the best of friends, they weren't kindred spirits- in fact, A__dam annoyed the hell out of John, and the feeling was mutual. From the moment John had been introduced to his Marine counterpart, who he'd been assured was "essential" for Anglo-American relations; he'd known they wouldn't get on. He was loud, he was brash, he was insensitive- everything that John wasn't. Softly spoken, unfailingly polite John Watson felt alienated by the presence of the man. Every part of them contrasted, causing friction that wasn't advisable in a war zone. _

_The reality of it was, they were a little afraid of each other._

_John was frightened of the man who didn't seem to think before he acted. He was terrified of Adam's impulsiveness and his extroverted personality. So very American, he'd think to himself privately, and then scold his own xenophobia. _

_Adam was frightened of the man who had to think every action through. He was terrified that John had to constantly convince himself that he was doing the right thing, and in that time lives could be lost. So very British, he'd think to himself privately, and then scold his own xenophobia._

_The reality of it was, they envied each other for it._

_John wished he could be the kind of man to take control. He wished he could believe that others were capable of their jobs- for he had trust issues long before Afghanistan- he wished he could be so confident with other people. He longed to be that kind of man._

_Adam wished he could care as much as John. He wished he could treat all with the kindness that John did- for Adam treated people as possessions long before Afghanistan- he wished he could love as much as him. He longed to be that kind of man._

_Together, they would have made the perfect person._

_Of course, they were very similar people__ in many ways, but one downside to this was that their stubborn personalities would never allow them to admit this. So their potential for friendship was ignored, and the two passed their days by throwing passive aggressive insults at each other- Adam's venomous, John's biting. And this was fine, and it worked, and everything meshed together in one well oiled machine that ran perfectly._

_Except there was a bomb at the centre of this machine that threatened to ruin everything._

_Adam Doherty never meant to save John Watson's life- it certainly wasn't part of his morning routine. It had been done accidentally, without him even knowing until it had ended. _

_John was technically a superior officer, having joined a year and a half earlier and having advanced further in his career. Adam should have listened to his superior officer and not gone out on his own to save the life of a friend. But he didn't, so he did, and so John had to get him back._

_John had trekked through the harsh, rocky ground, following the tracks of his colleague. Eventually he had found him, having passed out from lack of food and heat-stroke. John had nursed him back to health quickly then spent the rest of the return journey lecturing him on the dangers of going anywhere on his own, and how he should never disobey a direct order._

_John informed Adam that they were going to be picked up by the car that they'd been supposed to be on, on the way back from an important mission. They waited at the agreed checkpoint in stony silence, both carefully ignoring each other. They saw the car approach from a distance._

_These events were why they had not been in the car that day. This is why they were not in the car which hit the roadside bomb nearby._

_When John told his therapist about it, the first thing he had described was the sound. Everything seemed to happen at once- the explosion, the screams, the wind rushing past him and blowing him backwards. Then there was a sharp ringing noise that chimed in his ears. John did what he always did when he was stressed, and diagnosed the situation to death. The doctor part of John told him that it was probably caused by the blast. He could feel his raised heartbeat pound inside his head, which the doctor part of him knew was caused by the shock of the situation. He knew that his pupils would probably be dilated too, and that he was most likely to be shaking. _

_John and Sherlock had at least one thing in common- when they were in trouble, they analysed._

_The next thing John heard was, well, nothing at all. The absence of sound. It reminded him faintly of how you felt when you were plunged underwater suddenly. It occurred to him that his movements were quite like when you tried to run underwater too- suddenly slow and almost impossible. It was somewhere between a firework and a hurricane- dazzlingly entrancing and horrifically destructive._

_He told himself it was a dream. That he wasn't there and the moment would pass. It wasn't happening, and the moment would pass, and if he could wait for a little while he'd be gone. The blazing cacophony of silence hit him like a wave, whilst hideous images of fire and smoke and metal floated past him in the abyss of the aftermath, and John felt like he was drowning._

_The truth is he was. From that moment, John had been drowning in his own guilt and anger and despair, not knowing whether fate had been kind to him or whether he should have died. Somewhere, deep in his heart, he knew that better men than him had been killed. It made him ache to contemplate._

_He'd been told he was lucky. Lucky? They didn't know the meaning of the word._

_And all the fury, all the intensity of the blast seemed to fade into nothingness, and it was like he was behind a sheet of glass. It was like watching a report on the news- saddening, harrowing, but never personal, never to do with him. Except that it was- those were his friends, his colleagues, they burned and became pure in the flames that engulfed them. But John could not connect to them, because he had been taught to be British and stern and to control his emotions like a real man. He couldn't let himself remember the faces of the men he had watched die in a fraction of a second, because that was improper and he was a _man_, damn it. In that moment, he envied Adam's grief more than anything, because at least he could grieve at all._

_John often thought there was something wrong with him, a part of him was aware that he was emotionally defective, and he never thought he'd meet anyone who would appreciate how difficult it was for him to just trust someone. He didn't know the truth anymore._

_Until he met the man who saved him from drowning. He took the water from his lungs and little by little he made it into something sweet and beautiful and oh, so good. He made the world glow._

_12:45pm_

"So Adam Doherty was stationed in Afghanistan with you?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes," John said quietly. "He was one of my men."

Sherlock was shocked to see something raw in John's eyes. Something frightening. "You think it's him?"

"Potentially. Moriarty-" John's voice cracked. "Moriarty mentioned something about my past. To me."

"You mean he's been ringing you?" said Lestrade, suddenly concerned. "To say what?"

"Just to ask me questions."

"About?"

"Me."

"Did he say anything to torment you?"

"I'm not a child, Greg!" John snapped. "I can look after myself."

The room went suddenly still. "Well," Lestrade said as a way of reconciling them. "That's fine then."

Sherlock was unused to playing the peacemaker. "We need to meet with this man. Can you arrange that?"

"Sure, but we haven't spoken in a good five years."

_1:30pm_

_Everything links__ back to John._

The thought echoed inside Sherlock's mind, reverberating off the walls of his brain and becoming so incoherent it just became a loud, low hum. So Moriarty had been calling John. What had he been saying? Did he taunt John like he taunted Sherlock?

"I've got more information on Doherty," said Lestrade, passing him a sheet of paper. "He runs a Christian charity for returning soldiers called _Just_ in Central London."

"As in 'Just War'?"

"Yeah, I assume so."

"From what John tells me, he used to be a bit of a creep. Do you think he's changed?"

"I think it's possible to be a good person and a bastard."

Sherlock frowned. "How do you figure?"

Lestrade laughed. "It's easy if you know how to look."

_3:30pm_

The building was small but cheery- sunshine yellow paint adorned the walls, and comfortable chairs were inside for the waiting visitors. Sherlock and Lestrade sat down whilst John paced, biting the edge of his nail as he so often did when he was nervous.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Alright?"

"Fine."

They sat in silence until a giant of a man came out to greet them. He was at least 6'4, towering above even Sherlock as he smiled happily at them. "Hi, John, glad you could come." His accent was rich and thick, and Sherlock recognised it as from the south of America. "Come into my office."

They followed him to another room, this time a powdery blue, and sat down. "It's good to see you again, Adam."

"Likewise." The atmosphere was friendly, but with a hidden edge to it. Nothing angry, nothing tense, just… cold. "Can I ask what this is about?"

John gave him a small smile. "I'm afraid it's not a social call. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade, and my friend Sherlock Holmes. They're investigating a potential crime that they think you could be involved in."

Adam blinked incredulously. "I can assure you that I've done nothing wrong."

"They know that. They think you could be a victim."

"Oh! Of what, identify theft? Vandalism? Because it's about damn time someone did something about that graffiti outside, it's ridicu-"

"No," John interrupted. "A potential _murder_."

Instead of the shock and surprise Sherlock had been sure he would see, Doherty sighed. "Right. By who?"

"We can't really specify," said Lestrade. "But we need to protect you from now until 12 o'clock tonight. Is that ok?"

"Well, yes, that's fine by me."

Lestrade paused. "I'll be honest Mr Doherty, I had expected a more dramatic reaction from you than this."

Adam sighed again. "To be honest, I've been waiting for something like this to happen."

"Waiting?" said Lestrade, a little shocked. "But why?"

"You ever heard the expression 'Somewhere there's a bullet with your name on it'? Well, that's what I've been waiting for."

There was a tense silence. "You're waiting for something terrible to happen?"

Adam reached for a book off the shelf, and as his shirt rode up his arms, Sherlock noticed the evidence of burns on his arms.

"Religion saved me, you know. It gave me a sense of purpose- I couldn't let more men come home from war scarred. In America, they hero worship soldiers like they're gods amongst men. I realise now that God wouldn't want this. There's a quote that I think sums it up- _'__And though I have the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all knowledge _-"

"_And though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains and have not love, I am nothing'_." Sherlock interrupted, frozen in his seat.

Doherty smiled. "That's right. I became more than just a medal when I found God." His fingernails scraped the desk. "But even in my best moments I lose the will to keep on fighting."

_6:30pm_

Sherlock had left Lestrade to organist protection for Adam Doherty, and left to walk around the premises. The place was- well, he was sure there was a popular word that John often used to describe things that were bigger on the inside. Something to do with science fiction, but he had little time for such trivial notions. There were offices and game rooms and private rooms and therapy rooms, all tucked into one little space. It was in a therapy room that he found John.

He was sitting in the dark, knees tucked up to his chest and staring out of an open window.

"John?"

He did not turn around. "Come in."

Sherlock sat beside him on the sofa. Something gleamed in John's clenched fist. "What's that?"

John unclenched his hand. Sherlock could just about make out the outline of the small tin soldier. He'd been holding it so hard that it had imprinted on his palm.

"John, maybe we should go home."

"You know, I've just been sitting here, talking to myself. I feel like I'm going mad, Sherlock."

"You're not mad." Sherlock said softly.

"There has to be something responsible. Someone must have made that happen- and it kills me to even think about letting them go. But I must."

Sherlock didn't know what to say, so simply placed a hand on John's shoulder.

"I feel so _wrong_, Sherlock. Defective."

The door opened, and a chink of light temporarily dazzled his senses. It was only in the half light that he saw the glistening tears on John's face.

Lestrade looked suddenly shocked then awkward. "Um, we're taking Adam to a safe house. I thought you might want to say bye, John."

John nodded, and Sherlock followed him out onto the corridor. Adam stood smiling at him.

"Goodbye, John."

"Bye, Adam. See you again?"

"Of course."

John and Adam shared a lonely, solitary look at each other before John left. Sherlock was about to follow him when Adam called him back. "Can I have a word- Sherlock, was it?"

"Of course." Adam took him aside.

"Do you believe in God, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave him a half smile. "Believe, yes. Trust, no."

Adam laughed. "Well there's one I haven't heard before. At least you're honest. Do you believe in John, Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze only momentarily. "More than you know."

"Then look after him. We don't like each other, that hasn't changed, but- after that car blew up, after I tried to save my friends from burning I- I saw why John's way of thinking works. But he doesn't know that."

"Tell me how to help him. Please."

"It's difficult," said Adam quietly. "He has to help himself. You just have to listen to him, to try to understand. Trying is enough." He looked out the window at the shadow of his former colleague. "You lose hope, that's the worst thing. You lose your faith in humanity, in God, in trying to save yourself. I used to think about hurting myself, killing myself, but after a while even that seems pointless. Your memories become the only thing you love, and you'll never let anyone close enough to hurt you again."

"So what can I do?"

"He needs something bigger than himself to believe in. Prove yourself. Be the man he can believe in."

_8:00pm_

The cab journey home had been in stony silence. They hadn't said a word to each other since they'd left, and before John had a chance to lock himself in his room, Sherlock pulled him back.

"John?"

"What?" he said blankly.

"Give it to me."

"Give what to you?"

"That little soldier. The tin one that Moriarty gave you."

John's fist clenched around something in his hand. "Why?"

"Because you're tormenting yourself with it, that's why!" Sherlock yelled unexpectedly. "Jesus, John! Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"I don't know why, Sherlock! Why does anyone do anything?" John's eyes were suddenly angry, fury emanating from him.

"I'm trying to understand you, why won't you let me help you?"

"Because you won't understand! You can't!"

"What, because I'm a sociopath?" Sherlock spat. "Because at least I'm not in denial about who I am John!"

The look of hatred in John's eyes was expected. The hand around his throat was not. Gasping for air, Sherlock tugged at John's hand, trying to pull him off.

"John!"

John, whilst physically smaller than Sherlock, was far stronger, and kept him pinned to the wall behind him.

"I am not in denial Sherlock," John growled, emphasising every word. "Take it back."

"Fine!" he choked out. "Just… Just!"

"What?"

"I can't breathe John!"

Realisation seemed to dawn. John released him. Sherlock stumbled to the floor, panting heavily. Getting steadily to his feet, he stared at John in horrified awe.

"Sherlock," John said slowly. "I- I didn't mean- I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he said, still fighting for breath. "Just warn me the next time you're going to do that."

John paused, then gave a nervous laugh. So did Sherlock. Was this normal? Getting pinned to the wall by your emotionally repressed flatmate who you happen to think is sex personified? Sherlock shook his head. Since when did he think like that?

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock," It was Lestrade. His voice was shaking. "Come quickly."

_9:00pm_

They were outside Lestrade's house. It was a nice place- not huge, but large and very nice. It was a shame they weren't visiting on nicer circumstances.

Sherlock and John stepped into the living room. Several police officers were standing by the doors, whilst Sally sat next to Lestrade on a sofa. He had his head in his hands.

"Sally," Sherlock asked abruptly. "What happened?"

"Greg's son, Daniel," she said, shock clearly audible in her voice. "It's his birthday. He came home from school today, and- someone had put something in his bag."

Sherlock's heart stopped the briefest of moments. "What?"

"Someone had put a present in his bag. A toy, of some kind. Expensive."

John coughed. "And you think it was from Moriarty?"

"Well, it came with a card saying 'Love from Jim', so we assume so."

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. His eyes were vacant, fixated on something he couldn't see.

"Greg," he said quietly. "Are you ok?"

"Don't be ridiculous Sherlock."

"Sorry, stupid question. Have you secured the safety of your children?"

"I'm sending them to my sister's in Dorset."

"Good."

Lestrade stood up. "Why is he doing this?"

Sherlock hesitated. "To prove he can destroy the closest things to us."

Lestrade picked up a picture of his children. John patted him on the back. Sherlock simply stared at John's back and wondered if that's what Moriarty was doing this to him too.

**P.S- The roadside bomb incident is based on something that happened to my great-grandfather in WWI, just FYI.**** And John pinning Sherlock the wall came from my friend Ashleigh deciding it would be fun to grab my neck and hurl me against a wall this morning. Honestly, she's my friend. Honestly. I feel for Sherlock, it's very painful.**


	26. Maim Me, Tame Me, Blame Me, Shame Me

**TheScienceODeduction: Oh believe me, their relationship will be going places soon. I just like to drag out the agonizing UST for a while XD I am cruel. Thank you for leaving a review, I'm glad you like the story!**

**Well hi there! I updated this chapter a bit, because I was in an incredibly sleep deprived state at the time of writing having been up all the previous night, and I realized that half the sentences don't make sense. It's exactly the same, just with corrections to my frankly appalling thought track.**

**You guys seemed to enjoy the angst in the last chapter- and GOOD NEWS! There'll be more! YAY! I am trying to make the story as painful as possible, purely because I think it's nicer to see them together in the end if they've had to work on it. **

**OH! And in other news- I need help from all you lovely people out there. A few people have messaged me asking about the story I mentioned earlier on in Chapter 20, the fairytale that Sherlock's mother used to tell him, and asked me to write it up. Well, I've half done it, and I was wondering if you guys would tell me whether to publish or not! It's semi-linked to the story, and I tried to make it fit with some of the story's main themes. Ugh, I'm explaining this horribly. What I'm trying to ask you, shamelessly, is to review and tell me what you think of this chapter/whether I should publish the next story. I'm a review whore, what can I say?**

**Anyway, enjoy the chapter. Just to warn you, it's a bit of a talking one, and next chapter will be super fluffy. Still, we must have fluff to take away from the angst. I'm also going on holiday tomorrow, so I thought I'd just say that it's unlikely that I'll be able to post in that time. Love you all :D**

_**Part the Second**_

_In a big city, where there are so many houses and people that there isn't room for everyone to have a garden, and so most people have to make do with flowers in pots, in such a place lived two poor children. They were not brother and sister, but were just as fond of each other as if they had been. Their parents were next-door neighbors; they lived in attics at the tops of next-door houses. Where the sloping roofs almost touched, a gutter ran along between; and across this, each house had a little window facing the other. You had only to step along the strip of roof to cross from window to window._

_In the winter, of course, there was no sitting out on the roof. The windows were often thick with frost, but the two children would each warm up a coin on the stove, then press it on the frozen pane; this would make a splendid peephole. Behind each round hole was a bright and friendly eye, one at each window, These were the eyes of the little boy and the little girl; his name was Kay and hers was Gerda._

_December 12__th_

_9:00am_

Sherlock picked up the plastic toy and felt the smooth edges. It was a robot of some kind; Sherlock knew little of childhood but knew that this was true. Apparently, he was supposed to walk around and do things with the little silver remote that came with him. He looked into the robot's dark eyes, blank without the spark of electricity that he needed to be alive.

To think he would threaten a child. Sherlock should not have been shocked by this- after all, Moriarty had kidnapped a young boy during their previous game. It was the subtlety of his action that had surprised him- the barest hint of a threat. Sinister, provocative, but never obvious. Of course, the child would not have been bothered by not recognizing the sender- it was a toy, and he wanted it. Simple enough for a child.

The innocence of it scared him. How where they supposed to know who was safe and who was not? Children, in Sherlock's mind, were almost invariably stupid. Their unwavering trust was dangerous. His mind flew back to the memory of Frasier with a pang, and guilt coupled with anger seemed to form thick and painfully in his throat.

He brought his long, pale fingers up to his neck and stroked the slowly forming bruise. He could feel it now, a few hours after John had pinned him to the wall, it was swelling under his skin. Waiting to burst out.

Sherlock knew that he had gone too far, he had been certain of that at the time. He was unused to seeing John so… _useless_. All his usual, dynamic behaviour seemed to freeze, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of himself behind his eyes. The moment where emotions don't seem to matter anymore, when the empathy dies. He'd only said it to create a reaction, to stop John seeming ineffectual.

He pressed down on the faint pink marks where John's fingertips had been earlier, wincing a little at the exquisite sting of pain he felt. Sherlock smiled guiltily- John had marked him. He would always have the marks to remember. He never thought he'd want to be owned by anyone in his life, but knowing that John had cared enough to hurt him, that meant far too much to him.

The outburst had stopped him from being so frighteningly indifferent, and Sherlock found that having John look at him like that was the most arousing thing in the world. The undeniable passion and fury in his eyes made heat pool in his stomach- if only he could bottle that look, if only he could make it something tangible and analyze it until he understood the reaction it caused. If he understood it he could reject it, and leave it for other people to experience like he had with so many other things.

Except this time, he didn't want to leave it. He wanted to keep it close to him and never let it go.

John sat down beside him in Lestrade's sofa, as far to the other side of the sofa as possible. So he was nervous…

"Sherlock," he said, his voice low and calm. "Are we… ok?"

"If you want us to be," he replied, attempting to mask the excitement he felt at hearing John refer to them as one unit.

"I do. Christ, I do." He touched his hand briefly, making Sherlock shiver.

"Your hands are cold."

"It's snowing. I've been outside."  
"Oh."

There was a silence.

"What do you think is happening?" John said, in almost a whisper. "Next?"

"I'm not sure. It will take time to think about."

"We haven't got time."

Sherlock didn't answer, simply biting his lip hard. He felt his teeth puncture the soft flesh and a wet rush of blood meet them.

"Shit," he mumbled, wiping the blood with his hand. John's eyes lingered on the broken skin of Sherlock's lips. They glinted with something Sherlock could not describe. Achingly slowly, John licked his own mouth.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment. What was he doing? "Er, well, I should get back to the case."

"Can I help?"

"Do you want to?"

"Yes, Sherlock," he said softly. "In any way I can."

Sherlock gave him a half smile. "Then stop me from going mad with frustration, will you?"

John laughed. "We can't joke around, Sherlock, serious stuff is going on."

"Well I think I might go spare if the atmosphere doesn't lighten soon, John. I need some release. I need to be able to think about work without being dragged down in the melancholy."

John paused. "I was thinking about going shopping for stuff for Christmas later on. Do you want to come?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I ought to buy a present for you, I suppose."

"You needn't sound so annoyed," John grinned.

"I really do."

_10:30am_

Sherlock knocked on the door of the bedroom.

"Come in."

He entered, to see Lestrade sat on his bed, staring out of the window.

"Have your children gone to your sister's?" said Sherlock, not wanting to beat around the bush.

"They left earlier this morning." Lestrade still did not look at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm going to be blunt about this-"

"Aren't you always?" Lestrade replied, not in an angry way, but not in a friendly way either.

"Do you still want to continue with the case?"

Lestrade gaped at him, standing up. "Are you kidding? Of course I do. This is my investigation. I don't want anyone handling it but me."

"But your children-"

"Are safe," he interrupted. "And nothing bad will happen to them. I want to catch this bastard for threatening my family."

Sherlock sighed. "Don't you think it's a bit, well, personal?"

Lestrade glared at Sherlock. "You mean you think I'll get distracted."

"No, I just-"

"Or you think I'm not up for it?" he yelled suddenly, moving a step closer to him.

"No!" Sherlock cried. "Jesus, Greg, no! What is up with everyone today?"

Lestrade looked slightly ashamed. "Sorry," he mumbled. "It's been a bad day."

"It's fine."

"What did you mean by 'everyone', anyway?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Nothing in particular."

"Oh?" Lestrade raised his eyebrow quizzically.

Sherlock sighed. "John's being a bit- we, I mean to say-"

"Say no more. Is that what that bruise on your neck is from?"

Sherlock frowned and his hand jumped to his neck, shielding the ugly mark from view. "How did you notice?"

"That's my job, isn't it?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, I suppose so. I don't give you enough credit Greg."

"No. You don't." It was said kindly, but Sherlock couldn't help but see something cold in Lestrade's expression. The words had _felt_ serious.

He felt the all too familiar buzz of his phone in his pocket. "Yes?" he said wearily.

"Hey!" Moriarty drawled, clearly smiling. "You alright sugar?"

Sherlock smirked. "Moriarty, you really can't pull that off you know."

"You're so cruel. And you never call me by my name, do you know that? You never say it."

"Maybe I don't feel comfortable with that."

"Say it." His tone had darkened; the barest hint of a threat was evident.

"Jack."

"_Jim_."

"Jake."

"_JIM_!"

"Say it all you like, I won't call you that," Sherlock grinned, happy he had something over Moriarty.

"What about _John_? Will you call me _John_, Sherlock?" There was a brief silence, Sherlock unable to speak due to revulsion that thought had caused. To compare Moriarty to… It didn't bare thinking about. Moriarty laughed. "So you figured out my little problem. Good job."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that," Sherlock growled. "That was personal."

"Was it?" he said gleefully. "I had no idea."

"You had every idea, don't lie to me. You knew that he had known John."

"And? That would be important to me, precisely why?"

"It bothers you, doesn't it?" Sherlock said smugly, regaining the confident swagger he had with so many others. "It bothers you that I've found someone I can spend time with."

"Not as much as it bothers _you_."

There was a painful silence where Sherlock was too stunned to say anything, before he heard Moriarty hang up.

_11:00am_

"So what do you think, Sherlock?" said Lestrade wearily, taking a third cup of coffee from a disgruntled looking Sally. "Five Gold Rings. That's the next line."

"Obviously. But it could mean anything! I need more to go on."

"Perhaps it could be a jewelers?" suggested John. "They sell rings, after all."

"Good, if we can connect it to something," Sherlock said quietly, pacing Lestrade's living room. "We need to investigate Adam Doherty's family further."

"What, in case we find that he's related to Gollum?" Lestrade laughed harshly.

"It's a start, isn't it?" Sherlock sighed. "We need leads."

"Sherlock, I'll get on it. But you have to promise me something."

"What?"

"Relax for a bit, please?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"You look haggard mate. It's like you're half dead!"

Sherlock laughed cruelly. "Please. Don't make me out to need things like you and John, Greg."

"Be that as it may," he said coolly, "Even you're human. I'm not asking you to do something as drastic as, oh, I don't know, have a decent night's sleep for once, I'm just saying- well, just look at yourself!"

Sherlock pulled out the mirror that Moriarty had given him as a gift and held it at his eye level. He had to admit, he was hardly at his prime. His face was bloodless, the pallid complexion looking corpse like next to his colleagues' flushed faces. Sherlock had always looked thin, but now his face was as gaunt as it had been when he was still addicted to heroin. He had once heard Molly describe his skin as "moon lit", something he dismissed as frankly ridiculous, but looking at it now the comparison seemed laughable. He was sallow faced, with dark bags under his eyes, making him appear emaciated and weary. Was he sleeping or was he dead?

"I've looked better, I'll admit. But I'm fine!"

"No excuses. John, take him away somewhere for a couple of hours will you? He needs relaxation."

"Yes sir," John grinned, grabbing Sherlock by the collar. "Come on you."

Sherlock stepped out onto the street with John, feeling a silvery snowflake land on his nose and melt into nothingness. The cold was brutal, and for the first time, it truly felt like winter had arrived in London.

"_Those are the white bees swarming," said the old grandmother._

"_Have they a queen too?" asked the little boy, for he knew that real bees have._

"_Yes, indeed," said the grandmother. "Wherever the flakes swarm most thickly, there she flies; she is the largest of them all. She never lies still on the ground, though, but soars up once again into the black cloud. On many a winter night she'll fly through the streets of the town and peer in at the windows, and then they freeze into the strangest patterns, like stars and flowers._

"_Yes, I've seen that!" both children cried at once, knowing now that it must be true._

"_Could the Snow Queen come in here?" asked the little girl._

"_Just let her try!" said the boy. "I'll put her on the hot stove and then she'll melt."_

_But the grandmother smoothed his hair, and told them other stories. _

_In the evening, when little Kay was back at home and half undressed, he climbed onto the chair by the window and looked out through the little hole. A few snowflakes were drifting outside; then one of these, much larger than the rest, settles on the edge of the window box outside._

_This snowflake grew and grew until it seemed to take the shape of a lady dressed in the finest white gauze, which was in fact made up of millions of tiny star-like flakes. She was so beautiful, wonderfully delicate and grand; but she was of ice all through, dazzling glittering ice- and yet she was alive. Her eyes blazed out like two bright stars, but there was no peace or rest in them. Now she nodded towards the window, and beckoned with her hand. The little boy was frightened and jumped down from the chair, and then he thought he saw a great bird go flying past._

***All extracts of **_**The Snow Queen**_** are the work of Hans Christian Andersen, translated by Naomi Lewis. Their work, not mine.**


	27. THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER

**Hello. This isn't a chapter. As you can see. I'm very sorry. I'm afraid there's going to be a brief hiatus in the story, because I have exams and various things to get through, which are all very stressful and require my attention. There may be a chapter updated in a while, and then a long wait again, as I start to panic about my History exam nearer the end of the year.**

**Yeah, I'm majorly panicky, and I feel bad for leaving you guys hanging. In my spare time (when I'm meant to be revising, effectively), I'll try and get chapters written! I'll delete these once I actually get chapters up.**

**So, for the moment, I'm posting this on all my stories, and I have to leave you lovely people. And you lovely people are **_**far**_** more interesting than the people I encounter in my actual life (Christ, that sounded sad), so I shall be missing you. **

**Thanks,**

**Bethan (AKA Cryptic Nymph)**

**P.S *kiss kiss hug*- Anyone who gets the reference gets my love for all eternity. **


	28. Melt

**Hello there! It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm very very sorry. Ugh, you know how it is, my super hectic amazing lifestyle *cough* was getting the better of me. I kid, of course. I was revising, in a very half arsed sort of way, so I've probably failed all my exams. ****I've missed you all horribly, which is very sad, but I've had a dull couple of weeks and your lives seem to be so much more interesting than mine. **

**So, time for the update. Want a recap? Sherlock solved the last case, but it exposed John's scars from Afghanistan. Sexual tension + deep rooted anger = Violent outbursts, in the form of John pinning Sherlock to a wall and nearly suffocating him. And to make matters worse, Moriarty has started to mess with Lestrade's head by sending a present to his son. Oooh, plots. But never mind that for now, I promised you fluff!**

**Ugh, my head hurts. ****I've been working far too hard recently *supercough* Remember when I was writing this in December? It's June. **_**JUNE.**_

**P.S Coffee shop dialogue stolen (lovingly) from Role Models. I love that film, and Paul Rudd. IT IS NOT MY OWN.**

* * *

_Kay and Gerda were sitting looking at a picture book of birds and animals, and then- just as the clock in the great church tower began to strike five- Kay said, "Oh! Something pricked me in my heart! Oh! Now I've got something in my eye!"_

_The little girl put her arm round his neck, and he blinked his eyes. But no, there was nothing to be seen._

"_I think it's gone," he said. But it hadn't. It was one of those tiny splinters from the demon's looking-glass- I'm sure you remember it. Poor Kay! He had got another piece right in his heart, which would soon be like a lump of ice. He didn't feel it hurting now, but it was there alright._

"_Why are you crying?" he asked. "It makes you look horribly ugly. There's nothing the matter with me. Ugh!" he cried suddenly. "That rose has a worm in it. And look at that one- it's crooked. They're rotten, all of them. So are the boxes, too." And then he kicked the box hard, and tore off the roses._

"_Kay, what are you doing?" cried the little girl. And when he saw how frightened she was, he tore off a third rose, and ran in at his window, away from his little friend Gerda._

_After that, when she brought out the picture book, he said that it was baby stuff. When their grandmother told them stories, he would always find fault, and argue. He would even walk close behind her, put on spectacles, and mimic her way of talking. It was so well done that it made the people laugh. Soon he could mimic the ways of everyone in the street, especially if they were odd or unpleasant. People used to say, "Oh, he's clever that boy!" But all this came from the splinters of glass in his eye and in his heart; they made him tease even little Gerda, who loved him more than anything in the world._

* * *

_11:30am_

Sherlock stared enviously at a man in his home, lighting a cigarette yet still staying indoors. Damn the smoking ban. It wasn't like you could smoke outside anyway, the snow had grown so thick and cold that it was becoming hard to see. He trudged through the damp layers of ice and mud, John a little way in front of him, head bowed from the wind. Mercifully, they soon made it to the doors of the shopping centre, their clothes drenched and their feet frozen, but at least the wind had stopped.

"Why exactly," Sherlock managed to choke out. "Didn't we get a cab?"

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, we were fifteen minutes away. We didn't need to waste money on a cab."

Slowly having regained feeling in their legs, they began to walk around the corridors. Sherlock sniffed, his nose pink. "I didn't think you were the thrifty type- we had to force our way through all that snow!"

"There's a difference between being thrifty and being sensible, Sherlock. Unlike you, I don't enjoy blowing my hard earned cash on overpriced taxis and ridiculously expensive designer suits."

Sherlock frowned. "I thought you liked my clothes."

"Like, yes. Afford, no. Now come on, let's get a coffee."

Once Sherlock had finally admitted that he wouldn't find a coffee shop without any other people in it (he couldn't stand their idiotic conversations and obnoxious phone calls), they sat down in the café of a department store. He had disliked it immediately- it had attempted to make itself sounds slightly more Italian by being called itself 'Café Barista'. It was sickening. Sherlock waited impatiently beside John, who was taking a frankly insane amount of time to pick a muffin whilst a teenage assistant chewed gum and stared at them contemptuously. Once John finally decided, he gave her a cheery smile. "Can I get a tall decaf coffee, milk no sugar?"

Sherlock gave no such greeting. "A large coffee, black."

The teenager stared back with blank eyed nihilism. "A what?"

"Large. Black. Coffee."

She rolled her eyes. "Do you mean a _Venti_?" She spoke to him like a child, plainly and clearly.

"No," Sherlock said coolly. "A _large_."

"He means a Venti," said John apologetically. "The biggest one you have."

"Venti _is_ large," the girl said to him, apparently stooping so low to reach his seemingly worthless intellect that she'd soon hit her head on the counter.

Sherlock sighed. "No, Venti is _twenty_. Large is large. In fact, tall is large, and grande is Spanish for large. Venti's the only one that doesn't mean large- it's also the only one that's Italian." Sherlock smirked. "Congratulations, you're stupid in three languages."

"Was that necessary?" said John, taking their drinks to an empty table after a hurried apology to the girl.

"I'm educating her," said Sherlock blandly. "Isn't that kinder?"

"Ugh, I'm not even going through this again." He took a sip of his coffee. "So, have you made a list?"

"Why would I do that? I'm only buying you a present."

John sighed. "What about Mrs Hudson? And Lestrade? And your-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Not Mycroft. I refuse. I've never once in my thirty four years of being alive bought that man a Christmas present, I'm not starting now."

"I bought him one."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, confused. "I still don't understand that. You barely know the man. First impressions are important, and the first time you met him he kidnapped you. It's hardly the basis of a balanced friendship."

"We have a healthy respect for one another and a common interest in you," said John matter of factly. "There's nothing wrong with that. Right, well, I've only got a few things left to buy- shall we go around together?"

"If you like," said Sherlock, his attempted nonchalance badly hiding his relief. He couldn't imagine what he'd buy anyone, especially his damn brother. It couldn't be that hard, though, surely?

* * *

_2:30pm_

This was hell, it had to be. Screaming, wailing children lined the streets, somehow audible over the freezing, roaring wind, their parents desperate to calm them down by giving them something sickly sweet. Even when they were indoors, the shops were packed, hundreds of people browsing and buying and gift wrapping. Sherlock was, frankly, a little sick of being poked in the back by busy shoppers, and his scarf was sodden from the snow. He wasn't sure he'd ever dry off.

He had, however, managed to find a present for his brother- a simple yet elegant Armani watch that he knew Mycroft would like. He had, however, gotten it fitted for a much thinner man's wrists- he couldn't have his cake and eat it too, and it wasn't like it was hard to fix. Sherlock had a reputation as a moody, surly brother to maintain.

John and Sherlock braced the brisk cold again, trudging down the street.

"This is horrible," Sherlock moaned. "I hate it. There are too many people!"

"Oh please," John said, trying to balance his bags (he had managed to find his presents for everyone except Sherlock, and was now supervising him). "You'll be-" John trod on a patch of ice, his shoe skidding across it. He began to fall backwards, bags flying to the four winds, but Sherlock grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

Somewhat embarrassingly, with several people watching, Sherlock raised John up from where he had caught him, level with his diaphragm, and straightened him up. They were very close together, Sherlock's arms still wrapped around John's back, his forehead just at the right level for Sherlock to kiss.

Finally, John coughed. Sherlock blushed and let go, whilst John scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, scrambling around on the floor to collect the bags.

"Thanks," John muttered, taking the bags from him. "Let's check in there for Mrs Hudson, shall we?"

* * *

_4:30pm_

He managed to find a present for Mrs Hudson eventually- a family portrait session at a local photographer's. He thought of her son, a touch angrily- whether the man could be bothered to turn up to the event was another matter. The useless swine had never treated her right- oh, he turned up with a box of chocolates or a bunch of flowers occasionally, and took her to a show, but was he there when her second husband was arrested in Florida? Was he hell. She had _needed_ him then, after the man she loved had betrayed her and committed such a horrible crime.

He'd also managed to find Lestrade a gift- a designer coat, far nicer than the one he was wearing to crime scenes currently, but still practical and warm. So now they had split up, in search of presents for each other, and Sherlock felt like he would never find anything for John. The man was so hard to buy for, he didn't _need_ anything.

He was in the seven hundredth jumper stockist he could find, weighing up the options and deciding that nothing was good enough for him, when he felt his phone ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's me," said Lestrade. "We checked out Adam Doherty's recent financial arrangements, and it turns out that he visited a jewellery shop recently. Apparently it was a necklace for his sister- could this be a link?"

Sherlock smiled. "It certainly sounds like one. Definitely a necklace, though? Not a ring?"

"Yes," Lestrade continued. "And it's not gold, I'm afraid, it's silver. But it could be a link to the jewellery shop- could you check it out with us?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "It gives me an excuse to stop shopping anyway."

"Shopping?" Lestrade was clearly shocked. "What, you don't mean shopping for _Christmas_?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No!" Lestrade laughed. "It's just… unusual, is all. Is this another John imposed task?"

Sherlock, to his horror, found himself blushing. "Perhaps, does it matter?"

The smirk was thick in his voice. "No, no, not at all."

Sherlock frowned. "When do you want us there?"

"As soon as you can."

* * *

_5:10pm_

Sherlock and John had caught a cab and were on their way to meet Lestrade at the address he had given them.

"So it's a jewellery shop," said John in the cab. "Perhaps the owner has the connection."

"That's what I hate," said Sherlock bitterly. "It's never definite. I can never be sure…"

John looked out of the window. "Perhaps that's what he wants. He wants you to feel uneasy."

They pulled up at the shop down a narrow high street and saw Lestrade outside waiting for them. Sherlock quickly passed payment to the driver before rubbing his hands together- it figured that today he'd forget to bring his gloves.

The shop was small and cluttered, hand made products standing proudly in the window. There was a sticker on the window stating 'All our jewellery is made here, in the shop. We carbon offset all our products.'

"The owner's a Ms Adams," said Lestrade. "We thought this could be a connection to Adam Doherty?"

Sherlock gave him a small half smile. "Potentially. Let's go meet her, shall we?"

They walked into the shop, the bell jingling as they passed through the beaded curtain. Sherlock stooped to avoid hitting his head on the low doorframe, but unfortunately managed to entangle himself in a dream catcher.

"Sherlock," John laughed. "Are you stuck?"

Sherlock glared. "I suppose one advantage of being so short is that this doesn't happen to you."

John gave him a mental 'Touché', before they remembered what they were here to do. Lestrade rang the bell on the desk, the metallic sound ringing out loudly in the empty shop.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. "There's nothing gold in here. It's all wood, plastic or other metals."

A middle aged woman with deep purple hair came out from a back room and smiled. "Hello, how may I help you?"

Sherlock answered before Lestrade had a chance. "Hello. We're part of a police investigation, we'd like to ask you a few questions."

A little shocked, she replied "… Of course. Would you like to come into my office?"

They travelled through the seemingly labyrinthine passageways of the shop until they found her office. It was decorated much the same as the shop was, crystals hanging from the ceiling and a chart of palmistry lines.

"Please, sit," she said, indicating- to Sherlock's dismay- a few empty beanbag chairs. Lestrade and John sat down politely, sinking a little into the fabric. Sherlock stood, his gaze on the woman steely. "There have been a number of murders, and attempted murders."

She gaped. "I know nothing about any murders!"

"We're not suggesting you do," said Lestrade reassuringly. "The victims of this killer have been unrelated. We think you could be targeted."

Her eyes widened. "Oh God."

"We can protect you, Ms Adams."

"Call me Beatrix, please. But- why?"

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that information."

"Do you sell your jewellery elsewhere, Ms Adams?" said Sherlock.

She shook her head. "No. Just here, in the shop."

"Right…" Sherlock began to pace. "And the metal you use is scrap?"

"Yes."

"Not gold?"

"No."

Sherlock swore inwardly. Back to square one. "It _must_ be here, though. It has to be."

Lestrade stood up. "Sherlock, I don't think we should waste more of Ms Adams' time unnecessarily."

"Um," Beatrix said hesitantly. "I do _repair_ golden jewellery, cheaply. I use copper instead to hide the seam. For people who want to keep their jewellery nice but can't afford to get it fixed properly."

Sherlock smiled, a little bitterly. "Thank you, but we should go. We will contact you tomorrow, it's getting late."

She hovered by the door as they were leaving, a little nervously. "I will be alright, won't I? I am safe?"

Sherlock said nothing, but hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street.

* * *

_6:00pm_

Sherlock stripped off his still sodden shirt, throwing it into the nearby washing basket. He was freezing, the cold had really gotten to him. It felt like he was getting a cold.

He had really really wanted to solve this case quickly. His mind didn't seem to be functioning properly- maybe it was the cold. Yes, that seemed right. He hated being ill- all those people simpering over you, asking you if you wanted anything. It was all so helpless. He hadn't been ill for ages, not since he was a child- well, not with a physical ailment, in any case.

Irritated, Sherlock walked across the flat to the kitchen, trying to make a cup of tea.

"You shouldn't walk around half naked, you know."

Sherlock spun around, to find a dark haired man in an expensive suit smiling back at him.

"You'll catch your death of cold."

* * *

_One winter's day, as the snowflakes__ drifted down, he brought out a magnifying glass, then held out the corner of his blue jacket to catch some falling flakes. _

"_Now look through the glass, Gerda," he said. And she saw that every flake was very much larger, and looked like a splendid flower or a ten pointed star. It was certainly a wonderful sight. _

"_Look at that pattern- isn't it marvellous!" said Kay. "These are much more interesting than real flowers- and there isn't a single fault in them. They're perfect- if only they didn't melt."_

* * *

**OK, that was more plotty than expected. The plot dragon controls it, not me. I just throw it a virgin once and a while. Extracts of 'The Snow Queen', as always, are the work of Hans Christian Andersen and Naomie Harris, not myself.**


	29. Be Mine

**Hey! ****Just wanted to congratulate Shadow Cat17 for her fabulous timing- she is the 250****th**** reviewer! YAY FOR COINCIDENCES! I also want to thank OryonUK for unofficially beta-ing (is that a word?) this chapter for me, as it was being particularly troublesome. YOU GUYS ROCK!**

**I thought this chapter was going to be the last of this particular crime, but the plot dragon (who I have christened Smaug in light of recent Benedict Cumberbatch news :D) had other ideas. So, there'll be two chapters before the next crime starts****. Usually I go for a three-chapter arc per crime, but the Smaug will have his way.**

**Speaking of Sherlock news, there has been a lot recently, hasn't there? Very pleased to hear that the adorable Russell Tovey will be playing Henry Baskerville in Series 2! I've loved him ever since Being Human first aired :3 *GEORGE LOVE***

**ANYWAY. I'm getting rambly again. This following scene just popped into my head, and monopolised the chapter. Still, hopefully it's good enough to make up for it. This chapter gets its name from an REM song, which is ever so lovely, and it was covered by the equally lovely Radiohead. Yeah, I will work them in whenever I can.**

**WARNING: It's darker than I usually go. There's some sweary-BAMF!John. And there's a lot of UST flying around. Wear the appropriate protective gear, for your own safety.**

* * *

_The snowflakes grew bigger and bigger, until at last they looked like great __white birds. All at once they swerved to one side; the sledge came to a halt, and the driver stood up-. The white fur coat and cap were all of snow, and the driver- ah, she was a lady, tall and slender, dazzlingly white! She was the Snow Queen herself._

"_We're come far and fast," she said. "But you must be frozen. Creep under my bearskin cloak." She put him beside her in the sledge and wrapped the cloak around him; he felt as if he were sinking into a snowdrift._

* * *

Sherlock snarled, glaring at Moriarty. "Get out."

He pouted. "Don't be angry, Sherlock. I haven't been here long. I just had a look around. I had a chat to Mrs Hudson, in fact…"

"Don't you dare touch her," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

Moriarty grinned. "Make me."

Sherlock gripped a hand to his throat, enjoying the small splutter Moriarty made. "You don't come here, that's a rule."

Moriarty gagged. "I don't play by the rules."

Sherlock tightened his grip. "What's to stop me calling the police?"

He felt a large, solid object pressing against his stomach. "This," Moriarty choked out, his gun in hand.

Sherlock reluctantly let go, backing off with his hands above his head.

Moriarty rubbed the edges of his neck, almost pleased that he'd gained a reaction. "Tut tut, Sherlock, that was too easy."

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

He chuckled at that. "Many, many things, Sherlock."

"With _me_, I meant."

Moriarty picked up a mug of tea that he had apparently been drinking. "_Everything_."

Sherlock flinched at the word. "If you shoot me, I won't finish the game."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed. "Go figure. I'm not going to shoot you, Sherlock. Unless you _really_ annoy me."

Sherlock rested his hands on the kitchen worktop. "I want you out of this house. Now."

"Well, we can't all get what we want, can we, Sherlock?" Moriarty took a step closer to you. "Like me, for instance. I want to screw you. I want to hurt you. I want to kill you. But I can't- not yet, anyway. And John- he wants to fuck you too, probably even more than I do." Sherlock couldn't help but grip the edge of the worktop tighter at that, his knuckles whitening. Of course, he knew it was a cheap jibe, but the image… Well, it was a very inappropriate time to be getting aroused; he was supposed to be taking this seriously. "And you want to break him."

Sherlock glared. "I do not want to break him."

"Au contraire!" His sing song drawl chimed as he took another step closer, pushing Sherlock against the sink. "If you let yourself love him, you will destroy him. And you know that." His eyes glinted. "Now, let me have a look at you."

He placed his hand on Sherlock's chest, stroking it gently. The gun returned to his stomach, harder this time, making him wince. "You are a work of art, do you know that?" Moriarty muttered. "I mean, you are really, _really_ beautiful. And I could do anything I wanted to you right now. Anything at all."

He felt a shiver down his spine which had nothing to do with his bare chest. "You wouldn't dare," Sherlock spat.

Moriarty laughed. "Wouldn't I?" He gently placed his fingers on Sherlock's long, swan like neck and pulled him downwards, with surprising ease. Gently, Moriarty kissed the side of Sherlock's neck, ramming his gun into Sherlock's stomach and making him whimper. "I don't have boundaries, Sherlock," he whispered into his ear. "They're for amateurs." He licked his nape. "Be mine." Slowly, painfully, he sunk his teeth into Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself crying out. Blood glistened there as brightly as it did on his neck, catching Moriarty's eye. He raised his stained mouth. "You look so _taken_." He kissed Sherlock forcefully, ignoring Sherlock's continued struggles to break apart from him. Moriarty's teeth scraped against his mouth, aching and tearing even more so than before.

Finally, Moriarty released him, grinning. "You have no idea how long I've waited for that." He took a knife from his pocket, allowing the blade to reflect in the half light. "Pretty, isn't it? The way it glimmers."

Moriarty left the edge a centimetre away from him, almost daring Sherlock to let it pierce his skin. Sherlock's breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling dangerously close to the knife.

"Let me go."

"No." He pressed the blade to his chest, making Sherlock cry out. Moriarty's face was somewhere between a smile and a glare. "If you scream, I'll kill you. I swear to God, I will."

"You're so... changeable." Sherlock managed between pants.

Moriarty's eyes narrowed, and a cruel smile played on his lips. "That's the problem with me, Sherlock. You never know what I'll do."

He dragged the knife downwards, the shallowest of wounds etched onto his chest. Sherlock whimpered a little. Moriarty grinned. "This," he said, moving the knife again. "Is what you are, Sherlock." The pain was excruciating, the cuts barely there but scratched against such a sensitive area. Moriarty stopped cutting him, standing back to admire his handiwork. Sherlock glanced down at his chest- the word 'mine' was carved into his chest, blood slowly oozing from the wounds.

"You sick bastard."

"Oh, I do love it when you're like this." Moriarty put the knife to his neck, glancing down at Sherlock's trousers. "Take it off."

Sherlock blinked. "No."

Moriarty dragged the knife across his shoulder again, making him yelp in pain. "Don't make me force you."

Sherlock calmly tugged his trousers off his legs, leaving them pooled on the floor. He felt horribly exposed; Moriarty was positively eating him with his eyes.

"I was never going to kill you, Sherlock. No- I need to cut you up into little fragments, and shatter them, one by one. Like little bits of glass under my shoes."

Just as Moriarty made a move towards Sherlock, they were interrupted by the sound of a gun being loaded. They both turned to see John standing in the doorway, his gun raised calmly.

"Back off," John said, his voice perfectly level but dangerously low. "Or I will kill you."

Moriarty smiled, pleased to see a new dimension to his game. "What's to stop me killing Sherlock first?"

John gave him a small grin. "You need him."

Moriarty glared, and then the corners of his mouth began to twitch. "Alright. Here you go." He removed the gun from Sherlock's stomach, and put it back in his pocket with his knife.

"John," Sherlock hissed. "Shoot him. Shoot him now!"

John's gun was still level at Moriarty's head. "That won't achieve anything. All that would mean is that we will have killed an unarmed man."

Moriarty laughed. "Such _honour_! Well, your little dog isn't very well behaved, Sherlock. Are you going to punish him?"

Sherlock started, but John threw out his other arm to stop him, still with his eyes locked on Moriarty. "Get out," he said calmly. "Or I will shoot you."

Moriarty chuckled, but backed away. "Another time, boys." He shut the door quietly behind him.

"Fuck!" John shouted, panting a little. He slammed his gun down on the table. "Fuck!" He strode across the room, grabbing a first aid kit from a cupboard and threw the box down onto the kitchen side with a crash. "Are you alright?" He said fiercely, hands scrambling to find what he was looking for. He was giving Sherlock such a piercing stare that he felt pinned to the wall.

"John. It's ok." He tried to move but John blocked him, throwing his arm out suddenly.

"No, Sherlock." He grabbed a washcloth and ran it under the tap for a few moments, before lightly cleaning the area on his chest."

"You could have died!" He muttered angrily. "You could have died, and I- I wasn't-"

Sherlock looked down at John's bowed head, a little shocked at John's reaction. "John. It wasn't your fault. He wouldn't have killed me."

"No!" John hurled the washcloth into the sink, shaking a little. "He wouldn't have killed you Sherlock, you _know_ what he would have done. What he was _about_ to do. If I hadn't come in, he would have- God fucking damn it!" He kicked the kitchen cupboard, turning his back on Sherlock.

Sherlock was unsure what to do for a few moments. What did you say in this situation? Gently, he murmured, "He couldn't have. I would have died before he did that to me."

John clenched his fists, his back still to him. "He was- He was going to take-" John finally turned back towards him, the space between them feeling immense. "He was going to _hurt_ you, Sherlock, in the worst way imaginable. How can you be so blasé about it?"

Sherlock glared at John, anger tainting his usual adoration of the man. "You think I don't care?" He muttered bitterly. "It was _humiliating_, John, what he just did. And you still ask me if I _care_?"

John was silent, still angry, but a little guilty. "Look, I didn't mean-"

"Then what did you mean?" Sherlock retorted. "How fucking dare you, John. I thought better of you."

Silently, John grabbed a tube of antiseptic cream and began to apply it, a little more forcefully than strictly necessary.

Sherlock cursed inwardly, hating himself for upsetting John.

"John."

He did not answer.

"John, look, I'm sorry."

Again he did not answer, simply rubbing Sherlock's wounds with cream. Sherlock winced a little when John pressed particularly hard, the stinging all too reminiscent of what had just occurred. John paused, his hand hovering hesitantly.

"It's fine. I'm sorry- I didn't mean it like that."

He began to reapply the cream, now almost tenderly. He really was a very good doctor, Sherlock thought, he could be so gentle when he wanted to be. He had very soft hands too, Sherlock noted, though he was unsure how this helped him medicinally. Indeed, the very feeling of the good doctor's hands on his bare chest was giving him _highly_ indecent thoughts. He was uncomfortably aware of quite how naked he was, save for his underwear, and it occurred to him horribly that if he was to get a little, um, _overexcited_, it would be extremely noticeable.

_Think of Mycroft, think of Mycroft, think of Myc- _"He didn't cut you anywhere else, did he?"

Sherlock wordlessly offered John his neck. A look of disgust and guilt flitted briefly across his face before he regained his composure, becoming the stoic and ever so British medical man he was used to. He leaned across Sherlock's body, their legs brushing, and gently dabbed the teeth marks.

Sherlock shivered, and John retracted his hand. "Too cold?" he said quietly.

"No," said Sherlock abruptly, his voice a little hoarse. "Don't stop." He blushed at his own choice of words, but John said nothing, he simply returned to tending to him.

John picked up a bandage and began to wrap it around Sherlock's chest. "Sorry if it's stinging."

"It was only to be expected."

"Lift your arms." He did so, hating the exposure of his body. John seemed to notice his hesitation. "Are you sure you're not cold?"

"No," Sherlock muttered. "I just- Well. It's a little embarrassing is all."

John surveyed him, his eyes stopping on his thin arms. "You haven't been eating enough."

"Everything else is transport." Sherlock repeated to him, the way he had many times before.

"Everything?" he said quietly, pausing in his bandaging.

Sherlock swallowed hard. The word seemed loaded with meaning. "Almost everything."

John resumed. "You need to eat more."

"I'm not that thin."

John rolled his eyes. "I feel like I might break you."

_You already have. _"I'm tougher than I look."

John laughed. "I suppose you're right. Maybe you're just lithe." His eyes lingered on Sherlock's chest. His expression was something between disapproval and- well, he didn't really know what else.

"Maybe." Sherlock murmured.

They heard a hammering at the door, and Sherlock gave a small jolt. "Who is that?"

"Lestrade," John explained. "I called him. I thought he needed to know." Before he could cross the kitchen and let Lestrade in, he heard the door splinter. A huge chunk of wood clunked to the floor, a familiar arm reaching through and grasping for the doorknob.

Lestrade burst through into the kitchen, skidding a little on the floor and panting from the exertion. "Sherlock? John?" He spotted them both quickly, laughing with his relief. "Thank God. Did he get away?"

"Yes," Sherlock said abruptly. "If John had just shot him like I told him to, he'd be dead right now."

Lestrade gave a grim smile. "I admire your restraint. I don't think I would have been so admirable." He finally seemed to register Sherlock's clothes, or lack of them. "Sherlock," he said. "I haven't interrupted something, have I?"

"No!" said Sherlock, eager to clarify the situation. John said nothing, but sat down at the table.

"Then why the hell-"

"Moriarty," said John darkly. "He tried- He had Sherlock at gunpoint, and he was going to…" He didn't need to finish.

Horrified, Lestrade sat down too. "But he didn't, right?"

"No," said Sherlock. "I am perfectly fine."

"What about your chest?"

Sherlock leaned back against the kitchen side again. "He got a little overenthusiastic with his knife."

"Jesus," Lestrade put his head in his hands. "Are you sure you don't want the day off or something?"

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Even if I did, we don't have time. We have a case to run."

Sally Donovan walked into the flat, her eyes on her phone. "There are no signs of Moriarty exiting the building, all our cameras seemed to have-" She stopped midsentence at the sight of a semi-naked Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was a little ashamed to find her stunned silence an ego boost.

"I," She began. "Why is he…"

Sherlock gave Lestrade a silent plea of silence. He did not want Sally of all people to know about this. "What can I say, he's an exhibitionist?" said Lestrade matter of factly. He stood up. "I, for one, want to get this investigation done quickly, so I can go home."

"Such a devotion to your police work, Gregory," said Sherlock drily.

"Shut up you, just get some clothes on. I'll be asking Mrs Hudson some questions. Donovan, come."

They left, Sally still a little dazed. Sherlock smiled and went to pick up his trousers from the floor. He winced as he bent over, chest aching from Moriarty's wounds.

John stood up. "Come on. I'll give you a hand."

Sherlock was wary at first, but he knew he'd never be able to get into his clothes on his own. "Fine."

They walked to John's bedroom, Sherlock a little stiffly, and went inside. Sherlock felt odd being in John's room, it was the one place that he had never been. It was incredibly neat, everything organised with military precision. It was exactly how he had imagined it, prim and proper, with few personal details.

"You're not wearing your clothes, they're far too tight," John said, opening the doors to his wardrobe. "Here. I have some jeans, and a jumper you can wear."

Sherlock frowned at the lumpy wool. "I'm not wearing that."

John gave him a penetrating frown. "Yes you are. If you want to be comfortable, you'll listen to me."

Sherlock frowned. "Fine." He lifted his arms painfully, and John began to pull the jumper over his head. He was annoyed to find the jumper extremely comfortable, and more to the point, it smelled of John. He could not think of anything more agonizing than having to wear clothes that had recently touched John's skin, knowing that he could never… Well, it didn't matter.

"Jeans." Sherlock stepped into them, and John tugged them up around his waist. John's hands brushed lightly against the outsides of his thighs, something so obscenely pleasurable that he felt a little giddy. He did the jeans up himself- no matter how painful, it could not compare to the embarrassment he would feel over his body's physical reaction.

John smiled sadly. "It's never going to stop, is it? It's going to be like this until he's cold in the ground."

Sherlock could not think of a response. He didn't need to. He knew the facts of the situation just as well as John. Someone was going to come out of this dead.

* * *

"_Are you still cold?" she asked, and she kissed him on the forehead. Ahhh! Her kiss was colder than ice; it went straight to his heart, which was already halfway to being a lump of ice. He felt as if he were dying, but only for a moment. Then he felt perfectly well, and no longer noticed the cold._

_The Snow Queen kissed Kay once again, and after that he had no memory of Gerda and grandmother, nor of anyone at home._

"_Now I must give you no more kisses," said the Snow Queen, "or you will be kissed to death."_

* * *

**All extracts of 'The Snow Queen' belong to Hans Christian Anderson and Naomie Lewis- who, I have noticed, I called Naomie Harris last chapter, probably due to the latter's various Cumberbatch links. Naomie HARRIS was in Small Island and Frankenstein. Naomie LEWIS is the translator of HCA tales. My bad, Naomie.**


	30. On The Edge

**Hey guys. It's been a while! I've been on holiday with school to Berlin/Krakow over the last week, so I haven't been thinking about writing too much. Right now, it's the only thing I want to do, but I'm being forced into other things. Dull.**

**I'm sure you've all heard about the rioting, and it's getting scary now. They're rioting in Wolverhampton, where I live, but not on the same scale as London. Still, it's freaking me out… **

**I also need to ask you about the level of slash you want- because we all know its coming (*coughs*) like a freight train. These boys are going to get it on, and soon. That's right! SOON! All this UST I've been torturing you with will have been for a reason! YAY! But I need to know what you would like to see in the moment where those two finally give into their feelings- bear in mind, I am a fifteen year old girl. I'm not going too graphic. Still, I'd love to hear your thoughts.**

**I also need to thank bbmcowgirl for pointing out to my silly little brain that John's clothes would be ridiculously short on our dear Sherlock. It has been worked in, don't worry : ) **

**OK, I'll shut up now. I'll leave you with one thing- I have vaguely estimated how many chapters I have left. Very vaguely, mind. As I've already shown, my story doesn't stick to what it's told to do. This story is over seven months overdue for finishing *facepalm* OK, it should be around 42 chapters. Hopefully. If all goes to plan. I KNOW THAT DOESN'T FEEL LIKE SOON, BUT IT IS. OK. Shutting up now. Now. NOW.**

* * *

_Kay looked at her. She was so beautiful; he could not imagine a wiser, lovelier face. She no longer seemed to him to be made of ice, as she once had seemed when she came to his attic window and waved to him. Now, in his eyes, she was perfect, and he felt no fear. He told her that he could do mental arithmetic, and fractions too; that he knew the square miles of all the principle countries and the number of inhabitants. As he talked she smiled at him, until he began to think that what he knew was, after all, not quite so much. _

* * *

_December 13__th_

_10:00am_

Sherlock had gone to bed soon after the police officers had left- he was suddenly exhausted, he imagined it was from the shock of the situation. It was painful lying down, what with his chest in such a bad condition. As a result, he had not actually fallen asleep until the early hours of the next morning.

Groaning as the morning sunlight streaming through the windows temporarily blinded him, Sherlock swung his legs out of bed painfully and groped for his clothes. Well, _John's_ clothes that he was using temporarily. It soon became obvious to him that wearing John's jeans was no longer viable. It was fine whilst he was still standing, their length was barely noticeable. But when he sat, the turn ups rose to the middle of his calf, and this was more so. He looked for the loosest jeans he owned- he couldn't wear his suit trousers with John's jumper, he'd look absurd. He was a slave to his own vanity.

Eventually, he found a pair of looser- though still rather tight- Levis to wear, and went into the living room. John was sat reading the paper, and drinking a cup of tea.

"John, have you got a clean jumper I could borrow?"

John looked over at him, looked away, and looked immediately back at him. "Sherlock," he spluttered, nearly spilling his tea.

"What?" he asked, puzzled.

"I- Those jeans, they're too tight for you to be wearing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "In case you haven't noticed, John, I am a good half a foot taller than you. To wear your jeans in this weather would be suicidal- unless you _want_ me to catch hypothermia?"

John frowned. "Of course I don't. Wear those if you must, just stick a shirt on, will you?"

"Well I came to ask you about one, which you'd know if you'd been listening," Sherlock replied teasingly.

He was surprised to see John flush a brilliant scarlet. "Pick from my room."

Sherlock went to John's room, intrigued by his reaction. He was obviously uncomfortable with Sherlock walking around the place shirtless. It hadn't bothered him yesterday, though he supposed, it was probably not the best time to mention it. Still… to have such an adverse reaction to him… It was confusing.

Sherlock picked a stripy blue jumper that was one of his favourites and stuck it on. The arms were a little too short for him, but it stretched to fit him. The thought of John wearing it later, the arms covering his hands, was far too adorable.

"Come on," Sherlock threw on his coat as he entered the room once more. "We've got a crime to solve- back to the jewellers for a while, hopefully we'll find something."

* * *

_11:30am_

"You're here later than I expected," said Beatrix Adams, frowning at them as they entered.

"Traffic problems," said John, by way of an explanation.

"Any more leads?"

"I'm afraid we can't discuss that," said Sherlock coolly, wincing a little as he entered the shop. "I believe the police have arranged a protection officer for you until midnight tonight, Ms Adams, but this is merely a precaution."

"Well, I'll feel better knowing it," she said warmly. "Can I offer you two gentlemen a drink?"

"A cup of tea would be wonderful," said John. "Thank you."

She busied herself in the kitchen, and Sherlock examined the merchandise. "You know, some of this stuff isn't half bad."

John laughed. "You're mellowing in your old age, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. "How dare you suggest such a thing. I am as irritable and high maintenance as I have always been, thank you very much."

"Yeah, don't I know it," John grumbled.

Beatrix returned with the tea. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to be brief whilst talking to you. My daughter is ill, and I have to look after her."

"We'll try to be brief," John reassured her. "I just need to look over your accounts, whilst my friend asks you a few questions.

"By all means," she said, taking Sherlock into her office and leaving John alone. Sherlock sat down on the uncomfortable beanbags, sinking into the squishy fabric. "Ms Adams," he began. "If there is any evidence at all you can give me, I would be deeply thankful. But at the moment, I cannot fathom a connection between you and the killer. And believe me, if _I_ can't, I doubt anyone can."

"You're very confident, that's good. But I'm sorry, I don't think I can help you either."

Sherlock struggled to his feet. John would be a while with the books yet, and they needed to be thorough. They'd been sloppy before, and made mistakes. He glanced briefly at a crystal hanging from the ceiling. "You are very spiritual, then?"

She smiled. "I like to think so. I believe in Holism- the fundamental interconnectedness of all things."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ah, really. Well, that's nice."

"I could always give you a reading, if you like," she said. "Of your palms, I mean."

"I don't think that would be appropriate," he said hastily.

"Oh come on," she said, taking one of his hands in hers. She traced his palm with her fingers. "Ah, your head line is very strong. You're intelligent, wise, proud. And your heart line is strong and broken- you're passionate, but you attempt to restrain yourself."

Sherlock frowned at this. It was horribly accurate. "And your life line," Beatrix continued. "It's odd. Your life is dangerous, exciting, you live on the edge. How very interesting."

Sherlock was about to pull his hand away, when he noticed something for the first time. "Ms Adams," he said slowly. "Your hands."

She blinked and looked at them. "What about them?"

"Well," he began. "It's just that, I would have expected them to be less, well, looked after. You make jewellery after all, but your hands are not scarred or calloused at all, and your nails are freshly done."

"Oh no!" she laughed. "I don't _make_ the jewellery, I simply design it."

Sherlock was suddenly interested. "You don't? Then who does?"

"My daughter!" she clarified, and Sherlock smiled.

"We'll need to talk to her, if that's OK."

Beatrix frowned. "She's ill, she's in bed. She's had another migraine, you see."

"My colleague is a doctor," Sherlock pleaded. "He'll stop me if I'm harassing her. Please, someone's life may depend on it."

Reluctantly, she agreed, and Sherlock fetched John from the other room. "We may have a lead," he explained, and they travelled up the stairs to the rooms above the shop. It was much the same as the space below, decorated in crystals and bead curtains, and an old CND poster was pasted on the wall.

"Purity," Beatrix knocked on the door of the room. "It's some people who need to ask you a few questions, is it OK if they come in?"

There was a muffled sound of consent from inside. _Purity_… Now damn it if that didn't sound familiar… They entered the room, and saw a young woman sat up in bed, with blazing red hair.

Simultaneously, each recognised the other.

"You!" Sherlock cried.

"_Me_? Never mind _me_, what about you? What are you doing here?" she cried.

John and Beatrix looked puzzled. "You two know each other?" John asked.

"So do you, John," Sherlock smiled. "Ms Purity Adams- she was protesting about the black swans on the Feversham case."

The memory flooded back to John. "Of course…" he sighed.

"And the bastard still built his property there," she moaned.

"Language, Purity," Beatrix scolded.

"Sorry mum," she grumbled. "But- why are you here?"

"The same reason we were last week. There's been a murder inquiry. And we think you may be targeted. Again. That's brilliant of Moriarty," he said to John. "To target the same person twice."

John looked uneasy. "Right. We're sorry to disturb you when you're ill, Ms Adams, but we need to ask you some questions."

"Whatever," she replied, her tone acidic.

"Do you have any connection to gold whatsoever?" Sherlock asked. "Any gold jewellery you might own?"

"I make my own jewellery, thanks," she said coldly, swinging her pyjama covered legs out of bed. "And I don't know anything about any gold."

Sherlock's heart sank. They were unlikely to reach any new conclusions. The brief moment of hope that had swelled inside him shrivelled, and he sagged. "Well," he said. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, Ms Adams."

"Not a problem," she said, taking a box of the bedside table. She took out a long bandage and began to apply it to a large wound on her hand.

John frowned. "Ms Adams, when did you cut your hand?"

"About a week ago, why?"

"It shouldn't still be bleeding."

Sherlock sighed and tapped John on the shoulder. "We haven't got time for you to be nursing people back to health, John. Thank you for your time."

Sherlock turned to leave, but John stayed put. Slowly, he began to laugh.

"What is it now?" said Sherlock, irritated.

"I," John said smugly. "Have an idea."

"You do?" said Sherlock, a little shocked.

"Yes. Ms Adams, let me take a look at your eyes." He crouched beside the bed and looked closely at her eyes. He grinned. "Just as I suspected."

"Will you please tell me what's going on?" Sherlock snapped.

"It's not nice to have information withheld from you," John taunted.

"Just tell me!"

John relented. "Do you get migraines often, Ms Adams?"

She glared at him. "Quite often, yes. Why?"

"Are you often tired in the middle of the day?"

"Yes."

"Find that cuts won't stop bleeding?"

"Yes."

"Are you irritable?"

"Yes," her mother answered for her. Purity was stony faced.

"Forgetful?"

"Yes."

"Promiscuous?"

She blushed. "What kind of question is that?"

"That's a yes," Sherlock added.

"What are you saying?" she asked John. "What are you on about?"

John turned to Sherlock. I believe that Purity here has Wilson's disease. It's a genetic disorder that causes copper to accumulate in the tissues. Beatrix and Purity's father must have been carriers of the gene, it's a recessive disorder, she had about a one in four chance of contracting it."

"So?" Sherlock said irritably. "What does that mean for the case?"

"Another characteristic of Wilson's disease is copper deposition in the cornea. If you take a look at Purity's eye," Sherlock crouched beside her, "you will see that she has a golden ring around the outside of her iris."

Slowly, Sherlock smiled. "John?"

"Yes?"

"You are actually brilliant."

* * *

_4:00pm_

They reached the flat after much celebration, and John smugly telling Sherlock that he would have to be far nicer to him from now on. Sherlock was surprised at how effective John had been at diagnosing Purity- it had only taken him a few moments to realise what she had. In a way, it reminded him of his own gift for noticing details about other people. Except John used his power for good, not evil.

"So I can have the night off tomorrow?" John said, hanging up his coat in the hallway.

"John, you can have 'the night off' anytime you want."

"Yes, you _say_ that," John said, grinning. "But you're all sarcastic and moody with me if I don't ask permission."

"Oh shut up," he said, barely suppressing a smile.

Their happiness was to be short lived. After reaching the top of the steps to their flat and opening the door, they saw a grey haired man sat on their sofa, his head in his hands.

"Lestrade?" John said, confused. "What are you doing here? I thought you were organising protection for the Adamses."

"I didn't know where else to go," he said quietly. "Moriarty, he's- he's given Steph- My daughter, my second daughter, he's given her a present."

Sherlock felt the familiar shiver of revulsion that he was now so used to. "What?"

"He bought her a phone," he said, his voice quivering. "And it had his number in it. He rang her. He spoke to her. They've been chatting for _weeks_."

* * *

_And he looked up into the vast expanse of the sky, as they rose up high, and she flew with him over the dark clouds, while the storm wind whistled and raved, making him think of ballads and olden times.__ Over forest and lake they flew, over sea and land; beneath them screamed the icy blast; the wolves howled, the snow glittered; the black crows soared across the plains, cawing as they went. But high over all shone the great clear silver moon, and Kay gazed up at it all through the long, long winter night. During the day he slept at the Snow Queen's feet._


	31. Villains and Victims

**There's been an ever so slight monumental cock up with the dates. My bad, guys, I can't count. ****That would be RIDICULOUS. Therefore, as a reader, you have suddenly jumped forward three days to December 16****th****… Yes. BELIEVE IT. IT IS SO. **

**Also, some pre-slash Mystrade happened. I LOVE MYSTRADE, OKAY? Sherlock/John is still my OTP, but come on… **

**Sorry, not quite sure why my A/N is so ranty today. I apologise most profusely. Normal, polite A/Ns will continue next chapter :D**

* * *

_**Part the third**_

_But what of little Gerda when Kay did not return? Where could he be? No-one knew; no one had any idea. There was great grief in the town; little Gerda wept many tears. Then people began to say that he must be dead, that he had fallen into the river that flowed past the city walls. Oh, what a long, dark winter it was!_

_A__t last came the spring, and the first warm sunshine._

"_Kay is dead and gone," said little Gerda. _

"I_ don't believe it," said the sunshine._

"_He is dead and gone," she said to the swallows._

"I_ don't believe it," declared each of the swallows. And at last little Gerda didn't believe it either._

"_I will put on my new red shoes," she said one morning, "the ones Kay has never seen, and I'll go down and ask the river."_

_It was still very early when she kissed her sleeping grandmother, put on the red shoes and walked all alone through the city gate and down to the river._

* * *

_December 16__th_

_11__:00pm_

Sherlock paced the room, trying to make sense of the events unfolding in front of him. Lestrade was still sat in the same place on their sofa, stinking of alcohol, and Sherlock was fairly sure that if he looked in the kitchen bin, he'd find an empty bottle of scotch. Greg stared blankly at the wall opposite, as if transfixed, hands clenching and unclenching.

"Sherlock, this shouldn't be acting like this, this isn't normal."

Sherlock sighed and looked at John. "It's hardly a normal situation."

John ran his hand through his hair. "I don't understand why Moriarty's deviating from his pattern. I mean, he was targeting people who he thought deserved it last time. But first Frasier, then Adam, then Purity? That doesn't fit. Why did it change?"

Sherlock flattened his palms against the kitchen table and bowed his head. "I'm sure he'll be only too happy to tell us. He should ring soon. He will ring soon."

Sherlock could sense John hovering behind him, like he was reluctant to ask him something. "Sherlock," he began. "If he's gone after Daniel and Stephanie, surely-" He glanced over at Lestrade. He didn't seem to be able to hear them. "Surely Chloe is a natural target next?"

Sherlock shot him a grave look. "I suspect so. It's unlike him to leave a game unfinished."

John swore. "But _why_? Why go after them too?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "You really want to know what I think?" John nodded. Sherlock beckoned to him to go into the corridor with him. Once they had shut the door quietly behind them, Sherlock murmured, "I think he intends to derail Lestrade."

John's eyes widened in shock. "What, so he can't work the case?"

Sherlock nodded. "I think he wants to make Lestrade do something stupid. Those kids are all he has left of his family; God knows what he'd do if he thought he'd lost one."

There was a creak of the floorboards behind them. Sherlock and John both swivelled quickly, very on edge and ready to attack any assailant. Luckily for them (or unluckily for Sherlock), it was only Mycroft, walking up the stairs and absentmindedly swinging his umbrella.

"Not now, Mycroft," Sherlock growled. "I'm busy."

Mycroft laughed coldly. "How naïve of you to think I don't know that. I trust that DI Lestrade is in your flat?"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. "What's it to you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You needn't be so tetchy. I'm here to help."

"I'm not being tetchy!" Sherlock retorted. "We can look after Greg just fine, thank you very much. You can go."

Mycroft ignored him and pushed the front door ajar, with an angry Sherlock following him. Lestrade looked up at his entrance. "Sherlock?" he said croakily. "Who is this?"

Sherlock grimaced. "This is my older brother, Mycroft. He's the British Government."

Lestrade looked a little startled at this, and stood up rather suddenly, but Mycroft sighed. "Ignore my idiot of a brother." Sherlock bristled, but Mycroft simply looked Lestrade levelly in the eye. "I understand that your children have been targeted by the criminal Moriarty."

"Yes," Lestrade said slowly. "How did you-"

"It is unimportant," Mycroft interrupted, but not unkindly. "What is important is your family's welfare. I can arrange an upgrade in security for them, if that would help reassure you of their safety."

Lestrade looked relieved. "You would do that for me?"

"Anything for the long suffering DI Lestrade," Mycroft said with a grin. "Anyone who can endure the near constant company of my dear little brother for five years deserves all the protection he can get."

Lestrade, for the first time since he had arrived at the flat, smiled. "Well, I could hardly say no to someone who can call Sherlock Holmes an 'idiot' and still live to tell the tale."

"Alright!" Sherlock interjected with a frown. "Enough flirting, you two."

Both looked taken aback by the accusation, and shouted "Sherlock!" at him, but Sherlock knew the pair well enough to realise that there was some truth in his remark. "I told you he was an idiot," Mycroft said smoothly to Lestrade. He turned to Sherlock and John. "Goodbye Sherlock, Dr Watson." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was a fraction deeper. "Detective Inspector."

Mycroft left, still swinging his umbrella and humming a little tune to himself. Greg glanced at his watch. "Jesus," he said suddenly. "It's eleven already? I need to go."

"Greg," John said firmly. "You're staying here."

Lestrade was confused. "But, I haven't got any clothes-"

"We'll get a taxi to yours tomorrow before you interview Purity, you can change then."

"But-"

"Greg, as a doctor, I am telling you that you need to rest, and you certainly won't get any in your actual home. There are too many reminders. So you will sleep here, do you understand? You can have my bed."

Lestrade was bewildered and abashed, but relented. "OK… I might go to sleep, if that's alright with you?"

"Of course," John said kindly. "Up the stairs."

Lestrade traipsed upstairs, visibly sagging. As soon as Greg rounded the corner, John sat down, almost replicating the position Lestrade had been sat in.

"You're remarkably forceful when you want to be," said Sherlock.

"It comes in useful," John replied.

Despite himself, Sherlock shivered. "I can imagine," he said weakly.

John screwed up his hands, which were entangled in his hair. "This isn't _fair_, Sherlock."

"Life is very rarely fair," Sherlock muttered bitterly.

John groaned. "I just want to understand."

"You will, soon enough," said Sherlock uncomfortably. "Moriarty should ring at midnight. Then we'll know."

John yawned. "Do you mind if I don't wait up with you? I'm shattered, and I should be well rested for tomorrow."

Sherlock's memory flashed back to John's date with Sarah with a pang. "Of course. Be my guest."

Sherlock made sure to busy himself in the kitchen as John got himself into a pair of pyjamas and found a spare duvet. He did not need another unnecessary distraction. "Greg's already asleep," John said quietly. "Crashed out without even changing, poor sod." He positioned himself on their sofa. "I'd better not find another finger in here Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. "That was one time. You know, I could always sleep on the sofa, as it's unlikely I'll be able to sleep anyway…" Sherlock's motives for this offer were not entirely pure. The idea of John between his sheets was too good an opportunity to pass up.

"No, it's fine," John dismissed. "I'll be OK here. Goodnight Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

* * *

_December 17th_

_12:00am_

John had not taken long to drift off either, quickly curling into a ball on the sofa and burying his head into a pillow. He looked like a very large, very sexy dormouse. It was too adorable for even Sherlock to express in mere words. He satisfied his urge to leap on the man by simply watching him for a while- he had time to kill, after all. He glanced down at the brown hair, with small flecks of grey trailing through it, delicate on John's head. The thick eyelashes obscured John's exquisite eyes, both the perfect almond shape that Sherlock had long since become familiar with. His lips were slightly parted, and one hand poked out from the duvet, flat against the sofa.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt the phone vibrate against his thigh. Finally alert, he swiftly answered it. "Moriarty."

"Sherlock. Nice to speak to you again."

Sherlock unconsciously pressed his hand against his chest, where Moriarty had defiled him, and winced. "We need to talk."

Moriarty laughed. "Oh, I do love it when you're masterful. Go on then, ask away."

Sherlock paused. "You've changed your pattern. Before you were killing those who were involved in immoral acts, why would you change that now?"

He could hear the smile in Moriarty's voice. "There are two kinds of people in this world, Sherlock, the villains and the victims. And although it's harder to want to save the villains, when you fail a victim, it hurts all the more."

Sherlock stood up. "So that's it? Now you're killing innocents, just because you wanted to prove that to me?"

There was a giggle at the other end of the phone. "Little Frasier was the best. You were really cut up about that one, weren't you? You couldn't save him…"

Sherlock gripped the edge of the fireplace. "I will save them. I will save the rest."

"You have _such_ a hero complex, Sherlock."

"No I don't," Sherlock spat. "You think I care about the people involved? They're collateral damage. I just want to win."

Moriarty laughed again. "You know that's not true. Otherwise, why would you be on their side? There's _good_ in you," Moriarty said the word like it was a disease, "that you can't suppress."

"So what if I do?" Sherlock snarled. "That just proves that I am not you, Moriarty. That can only be a good thing."

Moriarty let out a quiet noise that sounded like a growl. "You don't know who you are anymore, do you? You used to think you were just another villain, taking advantage of the situation for his own good, but you're not. So what the hell are you?"

Sherlock ignored him, trying to regulate his thoughts. "I need to ask you about Greg's children. Why?"

Moriarty snickered. "You know why. I want him to break."

"But _why_?" Sherlock insisted.

"Because it would prove to you what you've known all along. Lestrade is not the saint you believed him to be, and neither is John."

"What does John have to do with this?" Sherlock yelled suddenly. John stirred in his sleep, and Sherlock froze. Slowly, he walked into the kitchen, attempting to keep his rage within, at least for a while.

"John has everything to do with this."

"I asked you about Lestrade's kids. Whatever their father does or doesn't do, it doesn't affect them."

"Au contraire, Sherlock. I told you about the two kinds of people in the world, Sherlock, the villains and the victims."

"What the hell do you even mean? Where are you going with this?"

"By Christmas, Lestrade's children will have been broken. Not dead, I assure you. But broken. Their fragile little minds will be fractured, chipped, like glass. And Lestrade will only have himself to blame."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "You're sick."

"You think I need you to tell me that? No, Sherlock, I knew that already," Moriarty said, his soft Irish lilt sinisterly twisting the words. "And whenever you need reminding of it, you just look at those pretty little scars I gave you."

Moriarty hung up, and Sherlock allowed his fingers to touch the indentations on his neck. They had stopped bleeding but were still obscenely red, angry marks of ownership and revenge. _So I guess I'm a victim too_.

Sherlock began to make himself a cup of coffee- there was no way he'd sleep tonight. There were too many things to consider, too many angles and positions to observe from. What did he mean, broken? He sincerely believed that Moriarty would not kill the children, but Sherlock knew from experience that there were far worse things than dying. And the idea that it could possibly be Lestrade's fault was absurd, but Moriarty was good at twisting things for his own sick agenda.

There was a sudden, strangled moan from the other room, and Sherlock's heart sank. John hadn't had a nightmare in days; Sherlock was beginning to think that they might be ending. He walked swiftly to the other room, crouching next to the sofa.

Except, John's face was not contorted in anguish, as Sherlock had expected it to be. It was soft and relaxed, his mouth open wider than before. He was breathing heavily.

"Shush," said Sherlock softly, stroking the doctor's hair. It was one of the few occasions where he allowed himself to touch John so intimately. He would risk blowing his cover to lull John back to sleep.

John's arms were outside the duvet now, palming at the material. John's eyelids flickered and he threw his head back as he moaned.

"Oh, God," he groaned, twitching in his sleep.

Sherlock continued to comfort him. "It's OK, it's OK, it's OK…"

"Christ, I-" John's back arched. "_Sherlock_."

Sherlock became unbalanced, falling backwards and nearly hitting his head on the coffee table. "_John_?"

Those were not frightened wails. They were something different all together- the sounds of John's ecstasy. "Sherlock, please, please."

Sherlock had no idea what to do. A rush of feelings suddenly flooded into him- excitement, arousal, fear, relief, they all came at once. Was this- Did this mean that John was attracted to him? He didn't dare to think it.

John let out one final howl before slumping back into sleep, not showing any signs of what had just happened, except a slight flush to his face. Sherlock staggered to his feet, collapsing back into an arm chair, gripping the arm rests like his life depended on it. He no longer needed the coffee to keep him awake.

* * *

"_Is it true that you have taken my little playmate?" she said. "I'll give you my red shoes if you'll let me have him back."_

_The waves, she thought, nodded back to her very strangely. So she took off her red shoes, the most precious things she owned, and threw them into the water. But they fell close to the bank, and the little waves carried them straight back to her. It seemed just as if the river would not accept her dearest possession because it hadn't taken little Kay. But then Gerda felt that perhaps she hadn't thrown the shoes out far enough, so she climbed into a boat that lay among the rushes, and went to the further end of it, and threw the shoes again. But the boat had not been moored fast, and the movement made it float away from the shore. It began to glide away, gathering speed all the time. At this little Gerda was very much frightened, and began to cry; only nobody heard her except the sparrows, and they couldn't carry her ashore. _

* * *

**Was the ending a little cruel? I apologise. Still- now there is hope!**


	32. Syncopation

**Hey! I'm back! I didn't die! **

**I ought to apologise, a lot. I haven't updated in ages. I know. I'm awful, I can't believe you lovely folk put up with me. But it should be going a lot smoother from here on out, as I have officially made sure I know every detail of the plot from now on. Well, maybe not _every_ detail, but almost :D**

**So here's a chapter, if you're not too angry at me to read it. I'M SORRY. I REALLY AM. I've littered the chapter with as many in-jokes as I could feasibly fit in, which is surprisingly hard. It ended up being longer than I expected so it's more of a bridge chapter, but hopefully I'll get more out soon. Thanks to my beta Kim, who's been putting up with some _ever_ so subtle hints from someone… *coughs* SHONA *coughs***

* * *

_Perhaps the river is carrying me to little Kay, thought Gerda, and her spirits began to rise. She stood up, and gazed for hour after hour at the beautiful green banks. At last she came to a cherry orchard, in which stood a little house with curious red and blue windows and a thatched roof. Then, from the cottage, came an old, old woman, leaning on a crutch shaped stick._

"_You poor little child!" said the old woman. "However did you come to be on this river, so far out in the wide world?" And with that she stepped into the water, hooked the boat with her crooked stick, pulled it ashore and lifted little Gerda down. "Now come and tell me who you are," she said, "and how you managed to reach my house."_

_So Gerda told her everything, and the old woman shook her head, and murmured "Hm, hm!" _

* * *

_December 17th_

_9:00am_

It had been a long night.

Sherlock didn't sleep much (though he'd been doing it a lot more recently) and it showed. As a teenager, he'd been extremely lazy, staying in bed for hours after he'd woken up, but he'd cut that out of his life a long time ago and he'd changed physically as a result. His cheeks had become pallid where they had once been rosy, his eyes misted with sleep and all excess fat taken from his body.

It was a lot more visible today however, which was confirmed to Sherlock by a fresh faced DI emerging from the bathroom. "Christ Sherlock, you look awful."

"Thank you so much for pointing that out to me," Sherlock snapped.

"No need to have a hissy fit. What's with you?"

Sherlock's brain faltered briefly under the weight of the real reason, before quickly finding an excuse. "You've been in there for half an hour, which judging by your usual standard of personal grooming seemed excessive. I thought you might have died. I was about to call John."

"I'm glad to see you're concerned for my welfare," Lestrade gave him a half grin.

Sherlock shot him his ever impressive "don't be such an idiot" glare "Hardly. I was thinking about your body" His eyes sweeping over the DI's form "It would be immensely useful for my research."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Well, thinking about _my_ body will make a refreshing change for you, won't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored his words but swore to get him back for that comment later, and shut the door of the bathroom tightly behind him. As soon as he was confident that Lestrade had left, he rested his head in his hands and sat down on the edge of the bath.

John had dreamt of him. As much as he had attempted to play down the occurrence (with little success), he could not deny that there were not many people called Sherlock, not nowadays. And it _had_ sounded very… eventful. He half thought he had imagined the noises John had made, as if it were some blissful dream. But the sounds in his memory were too vivid, too knee-weakeningly pleasurable for Sherlock to possibly make up.

He could not remove the image of John from his mind. Flushed and writhing on the sofa, slick with sweat and moaning oh so sweetly, moaning his name over and over, moaning _because of him_…

Sherlock bit the back of his hand sharply to keep from whimpering. Christ, he would not get an erection with Lestrade in the house. He was mixing work and home there- and if he found out, Sherlock would never live it down.

What to do from here?

He had two possible paths. Declare all his feelings for John, or remain quiet. Deep down, he knew that this was a puzzle he had already solved, however it was one he did not want to willingly accept.

"Just because he had one dream," Sherlock hissed quietly to himself, "doesn't mean he's attracted to you. The subconscious is a complex thing. You have no way of knowing what he feels. The extent of what he feels."

It pained him to admit it, but it was true. Horribly true. And even so, even if John were attracted to him, it had to be purely a sexual thing. Sherlock knew he struck an impressive figure to some, maybe John liked that type? He wasn't about to have one night of passion with John only to ruin the friendship they had for good. John meant everything to him. More than he dare admit.

His decision was made. He wasn't going to say a thing. No. No he was not.

There was a sharp tap on the frosted glass of the door. "Sherlock?" It was John's voice. "Are you in there?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said quickly, attempting to make himself presentable. He was terribly aware of how his unruly mop of hair stuck up at the back. He would need to carry some sort of brush at all times for any more last minute occasions. Breathing deeply, he opened the door to a smiling John.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concerned. "You look a bit flustered."

"I'm fine," something like Sherlock's usual self returned, "I just want to get on with the damn case."  
"Any clue where to go next?"

"Absolutely no idea."

John passed him in the doorway, brushing against his hipbone ever so slightly. He would have barely noticed normally; however with being so on edge lately, the touch seemed to scald, and his breath caught awkwardly in his throat. Once he had retreated to the kitchen, Sherlock expelled a heavy sigh and leant against the counter. He needed to think.

* * *

_10:00am_

Lestrade finished his phone call with Mycroft just as their journey ended. He looked very reassured. "Your brother's arranged security for us."

"I wonder why," Sherlock muttered.

John elbowed him in his ribs quickly but Lestrade had not answered. "That's brilliant. From my experience, you can rely on Mycroft Holmes to monitor anyone safely."

Lestrade smiled as they walked through the automatic doors of the clinic. "Mycroft's rather friendly once you get to know him, I don't know why you're always so awful about him."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "On first name terms now, are we?"

Lestrade blushed. "We didn't all go to public school, Sherlock," he said hotly.

"And what a blessing that is for you."

A smiling woman led them through the many labyrinthine corridors. It had looked tiny from the outside- it reminded Sherlock of a show John liked, about a police box and an alien, but he'd of course dismissed it as fantasist rubbish. Eventually they arrived at Purity's room, where she was being kept for observations. Her mother was sat beside her, looking on despairingly.

"I don't know, I'm sure there's a more natural way of dealing with this."

"Zinc will help," John said by way of a greeting, immediately slipping into his medical role with ease, "but it's more effective coupled with a treatment of Syprine. Your daughter's condition is easily manageable."

"Ms Adams," said Lestrade, "I don't wish to harass you, but we'll have to ask you a few questions if that's alright?"

Purity scowled deeply back at him. "I don't see how I can stop you, so go ahead."

"We just need a basic character study for our case. Hopefully this will be over soon, by Christmas at the latest."

"They said that about the First World War, and look at what trouble that caused," Purity said sourly. "What do you need to know?"

"Everything."

"Thank you for being so darn helpful," she glowered, her words dripping with acrimony. For one horrible moment she reminded Sherlock of himself.

"Purity, don't," her mother gave her a warning smile, "just because you're ill it doesn't mean you can insult the nice police officers."

"Officer," Sherlock butted in, "John is a doctor and I am a consulting detective. Admittedly, it is very hard to question her, due to the random nature of the victims. We'd just like to be able to know as much as possible about your life."

Purity sighed. "Well, sit down. It's going to take a while."

* * *

_2:00pm_

Sherlock deeply resented the fact he now had to remember the life story of an emotionally immature teenage girl for a case, but he was forced to. Dear God, people were dull. He, Lestrade and John were now in another cab, moving slowly towards a record shop in central London.

"So Purity works here part time?" said John.

"Apparently so. Lestrade, background checks on her colleagues?"

"They're all clean, except one."

Sherlock looked hopeful. "Oh?"

"Public indecency charges, I'm afraid. And apparently he was very, _very_ drunk, so I doubt he's an agent of Moriarty."

Sherlock sighed. "Well, I suppose this is our best option at the moment. Her life seems to revolve around music and her environmental work, and Moriarty is unlikely to repeat himself there. Her work is a good place to start."

The cab finally made it around the corner, and Sherlock quickly paid the driver instead of waiting for it to pull up outside. The shop wasn't easily recognizable, only by knowing the name of the shop, _Syncopation_, could Sherlock tell which it was. It was black with silver detailing, intricate paintings on the edges of the wall. Someone could walk straight past the place and not notice the peeling paint, the crack in one of the windows or the battered front door which had seen better days. The shop was clearly on its last legs.

"This is it," Sherlock said, knocking quickly on the door.

After a few moments, a greasy haired twenty something opened the door, a blank and puzzled expression on his face. "Yes?"

"My name is Detective Inspector Lestrade. My colleagues and I believe that Purity Adams works here?"

The young man frowned. "Yeah. She's not in today; she's had a migraine or something. Nothing bad has happened, has it?"

"If you'd let us come inside, we can explain," Sherlock said curtly, in no mood to be kept waiting.

The man nodded, stood aside and gestured for them to come in. It was a tiny shop, made smaller by the sheer volume of shelves that were contained inside. Each was full to the brim with vinyls, layers upon layers of them crammed together to fit. The walls were bare brick and the place was extremely cold, with only a small heater in the corner of the room to keep them warm.

"Do you have anywhere we can sit?" asked Sherlock.

"'Fraid not," he replied.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Ah, it's Darren Andrews, isn't it? The one who exposed himself in Manchester town centre three years ago"

Darren frowned slightly. "Look. I'd had a lot to drink, and it was my mate's stag… Anyway, how do you know that?"

Sherlock's lips twitched "Oh, let's just say you fit my profile."

Darren glowered. "What's happened to Purity?"

"She's been diagnosed with Wilson's disease," John interrupted.

"Is that serious?" Darren sounded aghast.

"It's manageable," John replied kindly. "Are you friends with her?"

Darren blushed scarlet. "Yeah. She's nice."

"As much as I would love to chat about Darren's aching sexual frustration, we need to discuss Purity."

"Wh- I- I am not!" Darren protested.

"Oh please. Don't hide that from me. I can see from the bags under your eyes and the slight incline in your left finger that you were up all night downloading porn from the internet."

Darren blanched. "What- How…"

"You get used to him," John said apologetically. "He's not in the best of moods, sorry."

Darren's voice squeaked when he next spoke. "Would you explain why you're here, please?"

"Purity was involved with a murder case of ours," said Lestrade.

Darren looked weak-kneed. "She wouldn't do anything to harm anyone, I swear."

"We know that, we believe she was targeted as part of the case. We're now looking for any clues as to who else may be at risk."

"None of us are involved with anything like that…"

"We know, we know. We just need to take a look around, is all."

A shrill ring from Sherlock's phone. "Excuse me," he said quickly, and stepped outside the shop.

"You're ringing more and more often. Getting needy?"

"Don't toy with me Sherlock darling. I do the playing around here. Having fun solving the case?"

"If only you'd make it harder for me," Sherlock said dryly.

Moriarty let out a low snarl. "So, how are you getting on?"

"Fine."

"Not going to tell me where you are?"

"No. Why would I do that?"

"Oh don't be such a spoil sport. You know that I will tell you if you're on the right track, and I won't change any details of the game. You're just too proud to ask for help," he said gleefully.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "We're at the record shop."

"Good," Moriarty purred, "very good. Now that wasn't so hard, was it? You must learn not to be so proud."

"I am _not_ proud."

"Oh please. Pride can be deadly, Sherlock. It's one of the seven deadly sins, after all. Pride, Envy, Gluttony, Anger, Sloth, Lust…"

Sherlock shivered. He disliked the way he had lingered on the last word. "You missed out Greed. How ironic."

"Did I? Oh, my mistake."

"You still think of yourself as a God, don't you?"

"In a way, yes. I prefer the term "overlord", but I _am_ a whore for dramatics, just like you."

"Don't compare us."

"I'll compare us all I want, thank you very much."

"What does all this have to do with anything?" Sherlock said in a low murmur. "Are you hinting to me? Or just playing with my head?"

"If I told you that, it wouldn't be fun," Moriarty giggled. "Perhaps I am, perhaps I'm not. Just think, Sherlock. Just think."

Sherlock was the one who hung up this time, angrily shoving the phone back into his pocket and walking back inside. Lestrade was asking Darren questions and taking down a statement, whilst John explored the shelves of the shop.

"John, I do wish you'd stay on task."

He put the record down. "Sorry. It's just that is a really well looked after copy of _Hunky Dory_."

Sherlock sighed. "John, you don't even own a record player!"

"It's not the point!" he protested, rather sullenly.

Sherlock took a look at the shelves. "There must be hundreds of these things. Hundreds and hundreds…"

"Well if you want to buy some, do it now," Darren interrupted from across the room, "it'll be closing in a week."

"Having financial trouble?" asked John.

"No-one wants vinyl anymore, and if they do they'll go to the bigger places in Camden and Portobello road. We're too small to survive."

Sherlock paused. "How many records do you own, here? And do you have any way of keeping track of them?"

Darren nodded. "There's a list of all the records we own here, and they're all listed alphabetically."

Sherlock took the list from him. "These songs. Many of them contain the words "bird". This could mean something."

"You're joking?" Lestrade gaped. "Checking through these will take forever…"

"It'll have to be done. John and I can do it, as he seems to have such a great knowledge of records."

John looked pleased by the compliment. "Well, you know how it is."

"I'm going to kill you if this turns out to be wrong, Sherlock," Lestrade grumbled.

"I'd like to see you try."

* * *

_And when Gerda had finished her tale, and asked if she had seen little Kay, the woman said that he hadn't yet passed by, but he was sure to come, she was not to worry, but to have a taste of her cherries, and see her flowers, which were more wonderful than any picture book- every one of them had a story to tell. Then she took Gerda into the little house, and locked the door._


	33. Cruel Or Kind

**Hi. I know right, it's been a while. I'm really, really sorry… I know I bang on about this all the time, but it truly has been a very hectic time at school recently. After 20th June, I will have no excuse not to update regularly. Seriously, if you even read this you're a star because I don't deserve any readers. **

**As some sort of way of atoning, I'm uploading two slightly longer chapters. I hope this makes up for my absence in some way! Oh God, I feel just awful… Ugh… I just hope you guys can forgive me! Regarding reviews, they've kind of piled up on me, but I'm gonna do my best to get through them all and reply! I've got about 1100 emails to get through over the next couple of days, which is going to be fun! **

**Oh, and also, congratulations to spocks-emoticons for being the 300th reviewer! 300 REVIEWS? Thanks so much!**

* * *

_On the table were the most delicious cherries, and Gerda was told that she might eat as many as she liked. While she was eating, the old woman combed her hair with a golden comb, and her hair curled fair and shining round her little face that was just like a rose. _

"_I've often thought I would fancy a nice little girl around, just like you," said the old woman. "We shall get on very well together, you shall see." And she combed away at Gerda's hair, and as she combed, the little girl was forgetting more and more her playmate Kay._

_When morning came she went out again to play among the flowers in the radiant sunshine, and so many days were spent. Before long she knew every separate flower, and yet, although there were so many, she felt that one was missing- only she could not think which. Then one day, as she was sitting indoors, her eyes turned to the painted flowers in the old woman's sunhat; the loveliest of all was a rose._

* * *

_December 17th_

_10:00pm_

Record after record after record, spinning around in Sherlock's brain. How people had the time to fill their heads with these things was beyond him. It was all so _unnecessary_. John, on the other hand, was in a state of perpetual delight; the man kept shrieking hysterically every couple of moments at the sight of a new album. He had given John his most withering of looks when he saw the man clutching a Stevie Wonder- whoever that was- record to his chest, but he had to admit, the wide smile on the other man's face was hard to ignore.

Hours had passed without a hint of a lead. More and more songs vexed him with their lyrics, so open to interpretation that really they could apply to anything. The only reason Sherlock continued with the wretched task was because he was waiting for Lestrade's answer. And it _did_ make John so very happy.

Darren had been helpful, too, once he'd seen John's enthusiasm. He'd helped organise the records for them, and even popped out to get them a Chinese before he'd left.

"Here you go," he said, handing them the bag. "Just don't leave too much of a mess, OK? Otherwise my boss will go spare, even if we are going bust."

"Of course," said John. "Thanks for your help."

Darren walked towards the door. "Er, I have to lock up. I can trust you guys with the key, right?"

"No," said Sherlock. "But you have no other choice, so…"

Darren looked less that reassured. "OK…"

"Oh, and Darren?"

"Yes?"

"Did you and Purity ever go to a fair?"

He frowned at the question. "Er, yes. Once. Why?"

"She has a picture of you both there by her bed."

His eyebrows raised a fraction. "Why did you ask if you already knew the answer?"

"Oh, no reason. Just think about it."

Darren blushed, mumbled a quick "goodbye" and shut the door. John laughed. "I can't tell whether that was cruel or kind, Sherlock."

He gave John a wry smile. "But the very fact that the ambiguity is there should mean something, surely?"

"Yes. I do believe I've humanised you, at least to a certain extent."

Sherlock smiled at John's amused expression but said darkly, "And was that cruel or kind of you?"

John thought for a moment. "Sherlock? There's something that's been confusing me."

"Yes?"

"Well," John began, "you know the rhyme? I thought it was 'colly birds', not all 'calling birds'. Shouldn't we just be looking for songs with Blackbird in the title?"

"There are different translations. Many people sing 'calling birds', and Moriarty may be one of them. We cannot afford to miss a trick. Besides, we're only doing this until Lestrade collects more data for me to analyse, or until we find a potential link. I wish I had more to go on…"

"About Lestrade," John paused in his search, "do you- I mean, I know he's very skilled, but do you think he should be involved so deeply in this case?"

Sherlock sighed. "No. He's compromised; he's very _deeply_ involved with the case. Moriarty's done that deliberately, so that if he gets to court he can question Lestrade's motives. Well, frankly, I expected Lestrade to stay on; he's stubborn and won't give up easily. And-" Sherlock hesitated, and then stopped himself.

"What?"

"He believes in the law, I know that much. He wouldn't break it unless he had to- bend it a little, perhaps, but only to help his purpose. But when other people break the law, break it badly, he can get very personal. Especially when it involves children…"

John bit his lip, frozen in thought. "Mycroft's security should help, but I don't know…"

"There's nothing we can do, John."

They continued to search through the piles for a while, a companionable silence falling between them, broken occasionally by John's quiet humming. Sherlock only spoke when he remembered a very troubling fact.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I thought your date with Sarah was this evening."

John paused, chewing the corner of his lip. "I cancelled it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I wanted to help."

He was touched by the gesture. "I would have been fine."

"No you wouldn't have. You have no idea about music."

Sherlock chuckled. "I suppose I don't."

John returned to his pile, still frowning. "Still, I can think of worse ways to spend an evening."

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly. I hate that I have to memorize this rubbish. And that I have to Google the lyrics to everything- my internet bill will be extortionate this month."

"Bills have never been too important to you before," John chuckled. "And I like this stuff. It's great. And Darren says he might be able to sell me the shop's record player on the cheap after they close…"

Sherlock stooped to look at the plastic bag by the door. "Roxy Music, David Bowie… Glam rock was a little early for you, surely?"

John looked surprised. "You're surprisingly knowledgeable about _that_, aren't you?"

"It's remarkable what you can learn through Wikipedia, though it's not helpful for anything specific. I was looking through some Culture Club stuff and it mentioned it in an article."

"There's Culture Club? Where?"

John's eagerness would have been irritating coming from anyone else. Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "Over there."

He crouched to search. "But yeah, I was a huge glam rocker in my youth. For one summer I dyed my hair red and started wearing eyeliner."

Sherlock laughed at the image. "I bet you got some stick for that."

"It was ill advised, yes. I attempted to create a revival of the movement in my peer group, but the rest of the kids all seemed to be into Michael Jackson and Madonna. Eventually I got into Siouxsie and the Banshees and started hanging out with the Goth kids instead."

"I can't imagine you with hair any other colour than- what _is_ your hair? Brown? Blonde? Grey?"

"Thanks for that last one," John grumbled. "Brown, I think, I've never really been able to tell. But brown always looked so dull- I really wanted that androgynous look, Bowie looked so good with it and I assumed I could too. I don't really have the facial structure for androgyny." He looked at Sherlock contemplatively for a moment. "You do."

He shivered involuntarily. "I won't be dyeing my hair any time soon."

"You don't have to. Yours is an interesting brown. Mine is… dull."

"It's not dull. It's far from dull."  
There was a moment's silence.

"Bathroom," John said quickly, and walked swiftly up the stairs. Sherlock gripped the wooden shelves a little tighter than he had intended to, lost in thought. They were skirting around something, he knew that John realised that. Could he have known what Sherlock had witnessed? No, impossible. He had been sound asleep; nothing could have distracted him from that dream. The very thought of that fact made Sherlock feel boiling in his thin clothes.

He picked up some of the empty Chinese boxes, carefully placing them in the bin next to where John was working. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught a faintly blue glow coming from John's phone, which he had put down on the shelf next to him. He caught a glimpse of the message on the screen.

_I just don't know what to do about him, Harry._

Sherlock stiffened slightly, knowing only too well who the "him" was. He couldn't look, could he? It would be wrong… But then again, his moral compass didn't exactly point due north.

Gingerly, he plucked the phone from the shelf, his finger hovering over the scroll button. Closing his eyes and taking a breath, he went back to the beginning of the conversation.

_It happened again._

_**I told you it would.**_

_Well thanks for rubbing that in._

_**My pleasure. Does he know?**_

_Lord, I hope not. But then again, he probably deduced it from the way I made my tea this morning or something ridiculously impossible._

_**Well, if he does know then he probably doesn't want to bring it up.**_

_You think so?_

_**John, if I didn't know better I'd think you wanted him to know. You do, don't you?**_

_I don't know. It's all so confusing. _

_**Do you like him?**_

_Of course I like him. He's my best friend._

_**You know exactly what I meant, John. **_

_I just don't know what to do about him, Harry._

That was not a yes. But it was most emphatically not a _no_, either. Sherlock's heart hammered wildly in his chest. He attempted to remain calm, but he wasn't quite sure how to.

**Deduction 1:** John talked to his sister a lot. This was the last message of 200 or so, and seeing as this was a relatively new phone (Sherlock bought it him after dropping his last one in the Thames) these had occurred in a very small space of time.

**Deduction 2:** The messages began from a month and a half ago, and Sherlock had detected a distinct change of John's mood at that time. It would indicate that they were talking again, after a considerable breakthrough with Harry's alcoholism.

**Deduction 3:** John therefore trusted his sister, and valued her opinion enough to ask her for help in a sexual crisis.

**Deduction 4:** John thought that Sherlock did not reciprocate his feelings.

**Deduction 5:** John said Sherlock was his best friend.

**Deduction 6:** John might be in love with him.

Now that - _that_ made his head spin.

He realised suddenly that John was coming downstairs, recognising the heavy, measured footsteps. Sherlock placed the phone hurriedly back on the side, his fingers fumbling over the plastic. But before he could catch it, the wretched thing slipped from his grasp and dropped to the floor.

"Sherlock?"came a voice from behind him. "Everything alright?"

_Shit_. He scrabbled on the floor, trying to find it. It seemed to have lodged itself under a radiator cover.

"Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?"

He rose to his feet, his face a mask of calm as he grabbed a nearby piece of paper. "I was looking for… this."

John looked at the paper. "A receipt for two light bulbs and some screws?"

"Yeeees…" he trailed off. "It may just be significant."

John rolled his eyes. "I don't want to know. I'll just play along as usual and act amazed when you link this hardware shop to Moriarty somehow."

He smirked. "You don't _pretend_ to be impressed, you _are_. That's why I keep you around, to appeal to my massive ego."

"Aha, hilarious. Now get on with your work."

Sherlock walked across to the bin, mind still scattered and searching. He screwed up the paper in the palm of his hand and was about to throw it down, when he noticed something.

"John? Come look at this."

He pulled the letter out of the bin. A final notice. Torn, had clearly been shoved down the back of a… shelf? Perhaps. It had definitely snagged on a nail, judging by the length and width of the tear. There was a small coffee stain in upper right hand corner. The colour of stain indicated too much milk for anyone sane. It had either been made by someone who liked their tea pathetically weak or someone who hadn't been paying attention. The latter seemed more likely- nervous, stressed, overworked and tired; still trying to think of a way to escape financial ruin; hands shaking from the possibility of bankruptcy. It was most likely made at some time just after the post was received, with no customers in that day. That wasn't surprising. But that was not the most interesting detail- oh no. What was interesting was seeing the name on the top of the paper.

"What is it?"

"This shop, the owners had taken out a loan in order to keep it afloat."

"Yes, and?"  
"The bank they took it out from was Shad Sanderson."

John's expression was caught between happiness at having a lead and unease. "Sebastian's bank?"

"The very same."

He frowned. "But why him? He doesn't seem to fit the pattern at all."

"Maybe we're not looking in the right way." Sherlock paused and thought for a few seconds longer. "If there was a link to someone I knew, I very much doubt that Moriarty would pass the chance up. That's how he works; he wants to make it personal."

John leant back against the wall and crossed his arms. "How can you know that?"

Sherlock paused again. "Because we're more alike than I care to admit."

* * *

_December 18th_

_1:00am_

"What the bloody hell is going on, Holmes?"

Sherlock, as was customary when dealing with people like Sebastian, gave him a look of contempt and walked straight into the flat. "Come on, John."

John too ignored the protests of the banker, and simply made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs. Sebastian's large flat was all open plan, except for a seemingly separate bedroom. Sherlock began to busy himself with the kitchen cupboards. "Got any Darjeeling, Sebastian?"

Sebastian looked as though he might hit him. "It's one in the damn morning!"

"Well observed," he replied dryly, taking out mugs.

"Holmes, get out of my flat. I'm calling the police!" He took out his phone and dialed 999.

Sherlock looked back at him, feigning offence. "That's not very polite. Now you're not getting any tea."

John gave Sherlock a concerned look. "I'm not going to get arrested, am I?"

He shook his head. "It's unlikely. Lestrade will stop that."

Sebastian seemed to have gotten through to someone. "Hello? There's a man- someone I went to Cambridge with-"

"He does love to drop Cambridge into sentences," Sherlock murmured to John, making him smirk. "It makes him feel clever and important."

"They won't get out of my home!"

"Your second home, to be precise," Sherlock said loudly. "You've got that big old house in the country where your wife lives, am I right?"

Sebastian became almost frantic. "They won't leave! Their names? Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Dr John Watson."

"Friend," John said softly to himself. "His _friend_."

Sherlock couldn't dwell on quite how touching this was for long however, as Sebastian gave them his address and hung up. "You see!" he crowed triumphantly. "You'll never work with the police again!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I've been arrested many times before, Sebastian, and strangely, no one's ever pressed charges. That's one of the advantages of having a brother who can make people disappear." He grinned when Sebastian's expression of delight faltered. "You never met Mycroft, did you? Well, I dare say you will soon…"

"As entertaining as this is," John said, bemused, "we do have a job to do, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes we do."

Sebastian let out a whimper.

* * *

_1:45am_

"I've half a mind to arrest you."

Sherlock frowned when Lestrade arrived. He was ruining their fun. "But Greg…"

Lestrade sat down on the sofa next to a very nervous looking Sebastian, turning to him to speak. "So, I'm working late, about to go home, when Donovan walks into my office and tells me that someone's reported that 'that wanker Holmes' had broken into their flat."

"At least she's calling me Holmes now."

"Oh no. She was quoting the operator. Apparently they've had dealings with you before. You're quite famous down there."

John handed Lestrade a coffee, which he accepted gratefully. Sherlock paced from one end of the room to the other. "Childish."

"Yes, but true." Lestrade took a sip of his drink. "Now. I'm going to finish my coffee, and you three are going to tell me what you know. And once I'm done, we're going to leave Mr. Wilkes in peace-" Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief. "-until tomorrow morning, when we will visit him at his office. Understood?"

Both Sherlock and Sebastian looked as though they were going to protest, but Lestrade was not about to budge on this.

"Spoilsport."

* * *

_10:00am_

They were back in Sebastian's office, nearly 9 months after they'd last visited. Little had changed, and there were the same faces flitting around the place urgently. Sherlock barely noticed them, or the strange looks he received from people who recognized him.

"I've told you, I don't deal with small loans." Sebastian was in a particularly foul mood. "Everything I cover is on a large scale."

"Everything's linked. I don't believe there's any way that you're not involved."

Sebastian slammed his hand down on his desk. "I am _not_ a criminal!"

There was a brief moment of silence, before John spoke. "Sherlock wasn't suggesting that you were. As we've previously mentioned, Moriarty's targeting seemingly unconnected individuals, people who are victims. Perhaps you should listen to what we're saying to you, Mr. Wilkes. Or is that a guilty conscience speaking?"

"John," said Lestrade, his voice a low warning not to make anything else of it. Sherlock shouldn't have enjoyed John's attack on Sebastian quite so much. "We need to take a look through your files."

Sebastian called downstairs for an assistant to take care of their needs. When he hung up the phone, he plastered a painfully fake smile on his face. "Someone will escort you to where you need to go. May I trust that this will all be quickly resolved?"

"You'd best hope so. Otherwise it could be very dangerous for you." There was little or no sympathy in Lestrade's tone.

Sebastian was left speechless by his words, but was saved from embarrassment by the arrival of a blonde haired assistant. "I'm to take these gentlemen to the records?"

"Yes," he replied urgently. "Do so."

"That wasn't very diplomatic of you," Sherlock murmured, as they walked back towards the lifts with the young woman.

"I've dealt with plenty of blokes like him, and I've never liked any of them. They think going to Cambridge means that they have God given superiority."

"_I_ went to Cambridge ."

"Exactly. You've always acted superior. Since when have I liked you?"

Sherlock glared at them both following Lestrade's quip and John's sniggers. "Perhaps I cannot compare to your dear friend _Mycroft_."

Lestrade blushed. "Don't be absurd."

He ignored him with a smirk. "It's all coming together, I think."

They walked into the lift together, the doors shutting gently behind them. "So do you know what you're looking for?" John asked.

"Almost. I've been racking my brain for some form of illumination, something about Sebastian that Moriarty could use."

"And? Have you found anything?"

"In the last conversation we had, he discussed sin with me. About how my _pride_ was deadly. He listed the sins but missed out greed. I assumed it was a mistake at the time, but now… It feels relevant. Like it was a clue. Greed is what drives men like Sebastian. They want it all. And they'll hurt others to protect that. We should be looking for a victim of Sebastian's greed."

"Well, that narrows the scope," John drawled. "Only half the country's been hurt by bankers."

The doors opened to a narrow corridor, which they began to walk along. Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "How on earth are we going to find out who it is?"

"Simple enough, once you know how." Sherlock opened a door at the end of the corridor, into a room full of filing cabinets. "In this economic climate- and whatever John may have you believe in that damn blog of his, I _am_ aware of the _relevant_ world affairs- people are victimized by the greed of others. We've seen it- people are being made redundant, losing their homes, etc. Now, I need to find out about any recent redundancies in his office."

The young woman who had shown them down here tapped on the door. "Can I help at all?"

He looked up at her. "You wish to help?"

"If I can." Her voice was low and flirtatious. She was giving him the kind of look he occasionally received; a more accomplished version of Molly's stammering attempts at seduction. It was most unwelcome.

"Then bring us coffee. Black, two sugars."

She looked a little put out at that, but didn't argue. John gave a small cough, as if to make her leave.

Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Right. Let's get to work."

* * *

"_Oh!" cried Gerda. "Why have I never seen any roses in the garden?" And she ran in and out of the flower-beds, searching and searching, but not a rose was to be found. At last she sat down and cried; but her warm tears fell just where a rose tree had sunk down. At once the tree sprang up, as full of fresh flowers as when it disappeared. Gerda put her arms around it, and kissed the roses, and thought about those in the roof garden of her home- and then she remembered Kay._

* * *

**Yeah, I got Sebastian's last name wrong in an earlier chapter, but it's just reverted back to Wilkes now… You didn't see ANYTHING… **


	34. Learn To Fly

_Oh, what a lot of time I have lost!" said the little girl. "I set out to find Kay. Do you know where he is?" she asked the roses. "Do you think he is dead and gone?"_

"_No, he is not dead," said the roses. "We have been in the earth where the dead are, but Kay was not there."_

_She ran to the edge of the garden. The gate was locked, but she twisted the rusty fastening until it came away; the gate flew open, and little Gerda ran barefooted into the wide world. Three times she looked back, but nobody was following her._

* * *

_December 18th_

_1:00pm_

Sherlock ignored Sebastian's glare as he entered the room. "Half the employees in this company are about to be made redundant, aren't they? Once Christmas is over?"

His eyes widened. "I'll call you back," he murmured into his phone, hanging up rather violently. "Will you keep your voice down?"

Lestrade shut the door to Sebastian's office, whilst Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "I'll need to see the respective files, and your security clearance."

He smirked back at him. "What if I refuse?"

Sherlock paused, fixing him with his most venomous of looks. "Well, you'll be responsible for the death of one of your members of staff. That'll wipe that shit eating grin off your face, won't it?"

Sebastian rose from his seat, as if to challenge him, but John interposed himself between them. "Your computer, please…"

He stood back from his desk to let Sherlock through. Sherlock began typing very quickly, knowing exactly what he was looking for. "Right, then… There are hundreds of people on this list, but we can quickly narrow it down to the office that you work in… There we go."

"How many?" asked Lestrade.

"Twenty four," Sebastian interrupted, lighting a cigarette. "I could have told you that. I'm sorry, but that's just how it has to work. The bank's up shit creek, and we're all suffering."

"I don't see you on this list, Sebastian," John said dryly.

Sherlock wasn't listening. "Twenty four… Twenty four… _Number of hours in a day, highly composite, atomic number of chromium, number of cycles in Chinese solar year, number of frames per second in film…_" He stared straight ahead at the screen. "_Sixpence._"

"Sixpence?"

"Sing a song of sixpence, John. _Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye, four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie._"

"You think this is the connection?"

"Quite possibly." Sherlock took out his phone and began to search. "_One interpretation of the traditional children's nursery rhyme is that it represents the Dissolution of the Monasteries…_"

Sebastian frowned. "What?"

He rolled his eyes. "No wonder you got a third. The Dissolution of the Monasteries was when Henry VIII made himself Supreme Head of the Church, and disbanded the monasteries."

Lestrade smiled, pleased with the new lead. "You don't think it represents the bank? And the fact it's going under?"

"You didn't hear that from me," Sebastian said, clearly uncomfortable. "I suppose it could…"

Sherlock continued to scroll down the page. "… I think I may just have this, you know."

"Then for God's sake, tell us!"

"Shut up, Sebastian. I need to meet all of these employees."

"B-You can't tell them that they're about to be fired!"

Sherlock looked at him blankly. "Why not?"

"Well- Because! Just because!"

"Don't worry. I'm not about to tell them all. I still need to see them, though…"

"Fine."

Sherlock began to pace again, thinking to himself. "_When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing, wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?_"

"Sorry, what?" John couldn't keep up with the flow of words, each spoken so quickly that he could barely hear them.

"_The king was in his counting house, counting out his money, the queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey_. The king and queen. The king would represent Sebastian, however misguided the comparison might be." Sebastian opened his mouth to protest, but Lestrade silenced him with a frown. "The queen… your wife? _The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes, when down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose…_"

"I don't see what this has to do with my wife, frankly," Sebastian said coolly. "Just solve the damn case, Holmes."

He chuckled to himself. "Oh, but in a few moments, I will have. Show me your employees. Now."

Sebastian quickly printed a list of the names, which Sherlock swiftly stole from his hands before he charged out into the main office. He hammered his hand on the desk nearest to him very loudly, gathering the full attention of the busy office. "You see this list? Check it for your name. If you see yourself in it, I want you to come to the empty boardroom in ten minutes. Do you understand?"

There was a sea of small nods. Sherlock had always had the ability to command the attention of the whole room. He turned back to Lestrade and John, who'd been watching bewildered from the sidelines. "Do you know who it is?" Lestrade asked him thoughtfully.

"I will in a few moments. But I think there's further investigation to do once we've found it out. I just have to make a quick phone call…"

* * *

_1:15pm_

The twenty four employees stood nervously in the boardroom, all looking concerned at the presence of Sherlock Holmes. They remembered him from last time, and what he'd uncovered.

Sherlock arrived with a flourish, as he always did, with Lestrade and John trailing just a little behind him. "Good morning," he said, with forced kindness. "Now, I must ask all the males to leave the room."

They exchanged confused glances with each other, and Sherlock's companions also looked slightly perplexed. The men left, murmuring quietly and suspiciously. It left around six women, all stood together, as though to protect each other.

"Sherlock, what's this about?" John whispered.

"Sebastian is many things, but he is not gay."

"You think he's having an affair with one of these women?"

"I know so. Now, we'll just have to see what he does when he sees them all."

As if on cue, Sebastian pushed open the door, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. He watched Sebastian's eyes pass from Sherlock to the women across the room. "What's going on?"

"Can you name these women?"

"What?"

"Can you name them?"

"Well, yes… Lucy, Gemma, Tiffany, Beth, Delilah and Sybil. See?"

"Good." Sherlock walked slowly towards the women, circling them in an almost predatory fashion. "Are you particularly close to any of these women?"

"No."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Yes, of course."

Sherlock hovered behind the group. "Would any of you say that you are particularly close to Mr Wilkes?" They shook their heads. All seemed nervous, not knowing what the situation was about, but a shorter girl had her hands tightly clasped behind her back.

"Look, Sherlock," Sebastian seemed furious now. "I've had just about enough of this. What do you expect them to say?"

"I expect them to _sing_."

"Don't be absurd!"

"I will ask you all to leave now, thank you…" They breathed sighs of relief, and headed towards the door. Sebastian shot Sherlock a look of contempt and left.

"Well. That was productive."

"How so?" Lestrade was massaging his temples, the stress getting to him a little. "We've got nothing to go on."

Sherlock smirked upwards at him, reclining in his chair. "Au contraire. Once Sebastian's out of the way, I need you to take Gemma to one side and explain to her that she is in grave danger... But we need to go on a little trip later…"

* * *

_5:00pm_

The house was as he'd expected- a large, stony building right on the edge of a little village in Sussex , probably a converted barn. Two relatively new cars sat on the drive, more of a statement than a means of transport. There was a leafless silver birch tree swaying gently in the mild breeze.

"So it could be Gemma, or it could be Sebastian's wife?" John asked, stepping out of the police car with Sherlock.

Sherlock did not answer him. "Dear God. Sebastian's never even here, why does he need a Land Rover? To get over the leaves in his drive way? Good lord."

They approached the door with Lestrade, who was having a hard time understanding Sherlock's motivations. "I wish you'd explain the reasoning for your plans to me beforehand, you know. I'm not sure we should really be doing this…" He saw Sherlock take a case from his coat, opening it to reveal a few long pieces of metal.

"Believe me; she'll thank us in the long run." Within a few moments, he'd picked the lock of the door and opened it. "You'd think with the money Sebastian earns, he'd install a decent alarm system." He walked over towards the alarm system. "1 9 7 7. The year he was born, the arrogant sod." The alarm system gave a little bleep of approval, and Sherlock grinned. "We're in."

* * *

_5:30pm_

Sherlock was sat on the sofa drinking a cup of tea when Clarisse Wilkes walked into her home. She had a small brass statue raised above her head. "Get out of my home or I'm calling the police."

Sherlock smiled, without looking her in the eye. "Ah, Clarisse. Good to see you're prepared in case of burglaries."

"How do you know my name?" she demanded, not lowering her weapon.

"I'm with the police. This is DI Lestrade," Lestrade smiled sheepishly, holding out his badge for her to see, "Dr John Watson," John shook her hand, "and I am Sherlock Holmes. I went to Cambridge with your husband."

"Oh." She placed the statue down on the ground, looking a lot less intimidating. She was pale and slim, with icy blue eyes and blonde hair. "I still want to know how you got in."

Sherlock ignored her. "You are Clarisse Wilkes, then?"

"Yes, I am." She perched on the edge of an armchair next to where the three of them sat. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

They shook their heads in unison, though Sherlock thought uncomfortably of his own addiction problems. She took a little blue lighter and lit her cigarette. "Is something wrong?" She thought for a moment. "Of course there is. How stupid of me." Her eyes widened in fright. "Is it Seb? Is he alright?"

"He's perfectly fine," he reassured her, "but you are our concern."

"Oh."

Lestrade held out a photo fit image of Jim Moriarty (no one who'd seen him had ever taken a photo). "Have you ever had dealings with a man resembling this?"

She shook her head. "No, I can't say I have."

Sherlock stood up, taking a look around the room. He crossed over to the mantelpiece. "Is this you at University?"

She looked up, a little confused. "Um, yes. That was a few weeks before I graduated- me and my friends took a trip out to the seaside."

"Ah. Still in touch with these friends, are you?"

"I'm afraid not," she replied sadly. "You know how it is…"

"I really don't. So you enjoyed Uni, then?"

"Very much so." Her response was fond, and her tone was much brighter for the topic.

"What did you study?"

"… Economics."

"Fascinating. Do you work in that field now?"

"… No, I don't work. Can I ask what this is about?"

Sherlock turned to look out of the window. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and gave it a cursory glance. _Mycroft_. Well, now was not the time. He switched his phone off. "Oh nothing. I was just learning a few things about you."

Clarisse frowned, not unkindly but out of confusion. "Are you the one Seb told me about? The one who had those tricks?"

"They're not tricks," he replied flatly.

"Sorry. But you are?"

"Yes. And I've learned an awful lot about you."

She crossed her arms, as if feeling violated. "I would prefer it if you didn't…"

"I'm afraid I notice everything. Even the things I don't want to know." Sherlock span around on his heel. "Like you for example. I know that you're a naturally trusting person, perhaps to your folly. I know that you're aware of your own flaws, for example your forgetfulness. I know you were ambitious, and that you were- _are_- very gifted at Economics. I know you relished university, and the challenge it brought to you. I know that you're bored, so very bored. I know that your relationship with your husband is strained, perhaps because of your husband's distance from you, perhaps because of the strain on the bank that he doesn't think you've noticed. But you have, haven't you? And you've started to prepare, you're not living in denial. You're smarter than that, and it pains me to see wasted talent even in fields I am uninterested in."

Clarisse looked at him, a little stunned. "That's not true."

"But it is. You didn't question the fact that my colleague here," he gestured to Lestrade, "was a police officer. Fair enough, you saw his ID, but you're clever enough to realize that it could have easily been fake. Three strange men in your house and you'll believe anything they tell you… That's telling. And your cigarette lighter shows me a lot, too. It's plastic, and cheap. That brand is sold in bulk. They'll break very easily. So why does the wife of a well off banker use a cheap cigarette lighter? Because she knows that she forgets things, loses them easily. Why have an expensive lighter that you're just going to lose? You're practical and I like that. And those photos are revealing, you know. Those smiles with your friends, they're genuine. You can tell because of the muscles you use. Usually in photographs people force a smile, and the muscles below their eyes aren't prominent- but with you, there are. That's a true smile. I saw the diploma hung on the wall- you're proud of that first, it's not meaningless to you. You worked for it. If University had been unpleasant for you, you wouldn't have hung it up. You've got little else to do, I can see. You've taken up various hobbies, I can tell- a few flecks of paint by your wrists, sports bag by the door, well thumbed cookbooks. You can't fill your days; you're not doing what you enjoy. I can't think why you wouldn't go back to work if you wanted, but I imagine it has something to do with Sebastian. You're not a naturally timid person, I saw that from the way you wielded that statue, so why? Ah…" Sherlock paused, and smiled a little bitterly. "You love him too much, don't you? At least, you think you do. He wants you to stay at home so you do… And that's what started the strain, and the lack of communication. He doesn't understand you, or your needs. He stays away in London for weeks without seeing you, without coming home. You know what's coming for the bank, you read the financial section. You're worried for Seb and his job, you know it could all end and the lifestyle you're accustomed to could change. So you've started cutting back- saving on expensive things like hair dye by doing it yourself. You've dyed it recently; I can see traces of it around your hairline and the slight discolouration of your hand. The dye isn't particularly high quality, and the faintness of the stain indicates it's been present for a few days. No one's been around to tell you where the stains are visible; you haven't seen anyone for days. You're lonely, aren't you? And so, _so_ bored…"

Clarisse's mouth hung open, clearly dazed at his words. "I…"

Sherlock ignored her, turning to Lestrade and John. "Do you see now? Do you see who she represents?"

They both looked incredulously back at him. "Just explain it to us…" John answered.

He sighed. "The rhyme, the nursery rhyme. If Sebastian is Henry VIII in this analogy, then who does she represent?"

Lestrade answered hesitantly, his historical knowledge not the best. "Catherine of Aragon?"

"Precisely. She is 'the queen'. So who is 'the maid'?"

"… Anne Boleyn. You mean, it's Gemma?"

Clarisse looked very confused. "Gemma? Who's Gemma?"

Sherlock grabbed her shoulders, giving her a little shake. "I seldom feel compelled to reveal information to anyone, so be grateful. Just think about it for a moment. You're clever, cleverer than you think, so just think about who Anne Boleyn was to Henry VIII."

She paused, and a slow, painful realization seemed to dawn on her face. "His mistress…"

"You aren't in any danger," he replied softly. "It's Gemma. That's the name of your husband's mistress. Who, incidentally, I believe you would have gotten on with under different circumstances. Still, this is the way the world works."

"I still don't understand why Gemma is the victim and not Clarisse," John asked.

"'_The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes, when down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose_.' That image of violence proves it to me."

Clarisse began to shake, shock coursing through her body. "I don't believe this…"

"You're too trusting, I've told you that already. And I'm not the best at this, but," Sherlock searched for words, "I believe that recently I have begun to understand emotions of the heart a lot more easily. And I recognize that your feelings of betrayal will feel incapacitating for a while, but they will end."

His words didn't seem to give her much comfort, but Lestrade and John were looking at him like a different person had walked into the room - particularly John. The doctor's face vacillated between curiosity, fear and desperation- and that expression was one that made his stomach flip.

* * *

_7:15pm_

Sherlock leaned against a wall of the house, allowing himself to become lost in thought. He barely knew himself anymore. Telling Clarisse about her husband's affair had been most out of character of him. Sherlock had never intended to reveal Sebastian's previous affair to his girlfriend during their time at Cambridge , he had simply told her the truth when she'd asked. This time, he'd travelled to bloody Kent to tell her about his infidelity. Was this a sign that he was getting soft? And should he have told her in the first place? Perhaps it would have been better to leave her ignorant; perhaps she would have been happier. He knew from experience that knowledge rarely meant happiness. And since when did he care about what it would be kinder to do?

"Hiding, are we?"

He jumped at John's voice. "Don't announce yourself then," he snapped.

John walked over to lean beside him. "Nice place this, isn't it?"

"If you like that sort of thing."

He watched John check his phone, seemingly choosing to ignore the caller. "You look sad."

Sherlock laughed harshly. "I'm _fine_."

John hesitated. "I realize that being with Sebastian brings back bad memories…"

"As if an idiot such as Sebastian could affect me in any way," he replied quickly, too quickly to be seen as genuine.

"All I'm saying is, you shouldn't let him get to you. He's quite clearly an arse."

"I won't. I'm not."

"Good."

There was a brief moment of silence. He could hear the bustle of police officers within the house's walls from here, John having left the front door slightly ajar. "She's still crying," he said absentmindedly.

"She loved him, it's understandable."

"But why?" he cried, genuinely confused.

John shrugged. "The heart wants what it wants."

He turned to look at John, his dear sweet John. "Do you think I should have told her?"

"Yes. In the long run, it's better."

"I just feel like it's not been appreciated by her- Not that I'm _looking_ for some sort of gratitude," Sherlock attempted to explain. "It's just that I may have done her more harm than good."

"She wasn't happy, you saw that. And she would have remained that way without you telling her about Sebastian. It hurts now, of course, but she'll be happier for it in the long run. Clarisse will finally be able to be a person again."

Sherlock nodded, before he remembered the words of a song he had listened to just yesterday. "'_Blackbird, singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly_.'"

John smiled at Sherlock's recollection. "'_All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arrive_.'"

Sherlock looked at John, down into his eyes. Perhaps it was the right moment? He bent his head towards John, and saw John rise to meet him, before-

There was a crash from inside the house, and the pair jolted apart. "What was that?" John asked hurriedly.

Two police officers who had been waiting outside ran through the front door.

"Let's go see."

Sherlock had expected to see Clarisse collapsed in tears, but that was not the case. It was Lestrade. He'd knocked over a table and was currently kneeling on the floor, sobbing and tearing at his own hair.

"Jesus, Greg!" John cried. "What's happened?"

Sherlock noticed his discarded phone, and whilst John attempted to help Lestrade to his feet, the detective bent down pick it up. He could hear a voice coming from it faintly. He answered. "Hello?"

"Sherlock?" It was his brother's voice, and he sounded urgent. "Why the hell haven't you been answering my calls?"

"I'm on a case," he said bluntly. "What the hell have you done to Lestrade?"

"Sherlock- It's the safe house, the one I put his children in…"

Sherlock froze; horror and revulsion making him shiver. "You don't mean…"

"It's been broken into. You all need to come now - and quickly."

* * *

"_At last she could run no further, so she sat down on a big stone. As she gazed around her, she realized that summer was over; it was late autumn. _

"_Oh, I have lingered here too long," said little Gerda. She got up from the stone and started off once more._

_How tired and sore her feet were! How cold and damp was the country side! Oh, how mournful and bleak it was in the wide world!_


End file.
